UC-NRLF 


B    3    3MD    D37 


THE  LAMP 

OF  POOR  SOULS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


u 


t^> 


■^1 


"Lay  Thou  the  hand  of  faith  upon  my  fears" 

The  Lamp  of  Poor  Souls  (Page  13, 


The 

LAMP  of  POOR  SOULS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 

MARJORIE  L.  C.  PICKTHALL 


FRONTISPIECE 

BY 

.WALTER  TAYLOR 


I*   «     *  • , 


TORONTO:      S.    B.    GUNDY 

NEW    YORK:    JOHN    LANE    COMPANY 

LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

MCMXVI 


Copyright,  191 6, 
By  John  Lane  Company 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 

New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MY  MOTHER 


3309^^ 


/^ 


The  greater  number  of  these  poems  appeared 
in  an  earher  volume,  "The  Drift  of  Pinions." 
My  thanks  are  due  to  Messrs.  Scribner's  for 
allowing  me  to  include  "Mary  Shepherdess" 
among  the  poems  hitherto  unpublished  in  book 
form,  and  to  the  University  Magazine  of  Mon- 
treal for  much  kindness  in  connection  with  the 
work  that  has  appeared  in  their  pages. 

M.  L.  C.  P. 


England,  191 6. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Lamp  of  Poor  Souls 13 

Song   15 

Birds  at  Evening 16 

Improvisation  on  the  Flute    ....  18 

An  Epitaph 20 

Salutaris  Hostia 21 

Mary  Shepherdess 23 

Vale 26 

Two  Lyrics 28 

On  Amaryllis 30 

Wiltshire 32 

Gold  Dawn 34 

Departure 35 

Dimitte  Mortuos 36 

Song 37 

Traveller's  Joy 39 

The  Young  Baptist 41 

Armorel 44 

The  Little  Fauns  to  Proserpine  ...  47 

Wanderlied 50 

vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  Alcithoe 52 

The  Sea  Witch 53 

The  Immortal 54 

Dawn 56 

Evening 59 

The  Green  Month 61 

Song  of  Late  September 62 

Frost  Song 64 

Dream  River 65 

Swallows 66 

The  Pool 67 

O  Silver  Rose 69 

The  Bridegroom  of  Cana 70 

A  Mother  in  Egypt 73 

St.  Yves'  Poor "T] 

The  Little  Sister  of  the  Prophet  .   .  80 

PlETER   MaRINUS 83 

In  THE  Gardens  of  Shushan  ....  85 

Pere  Lalemant 87 

Bega 90 

In  a  Monastery  Garden 92 

A  Child's  Song 94 

A  Child's  Song  of  Christmas      ...  95 

viii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Youth's  End      97 

Jasper's  Song 99 

The  Hillman's  Lass loi 

The  Shepherd  Boy 103 

Duna 106 

My  Father  He  Was  a  Fisherman    .    .  107 

Jennifer's  Lad 109 

Three  Island  Songs no 

Serenade 113 

The  Lovers  of  Marchaid 114 

The  House's  Setting 117 

Deus  Misereatur 118 

Fame 119 

KwANNON 121 

MoNS  Angelorum 124 

A  Saxon  Epitaph     139 


THE  LAMP 

OF  POOR  SOULS 

AND     OTHER    POEMS 


The  Lamp  of  Poor  Souls 

In  many  English  churches  before  the  Reforma- 
tion there  teas  kept  a  little  lamp  continually  burning, 
called  the  Lamp  of  Poor  Souls.  People  ivere  re- 
minded thereby  to  pray  for  the  souls  of  those  dead 
ivhose  kinsfolk  ivere  too  poor  to  pay  for  prayers  and 
masses. 

Above  my  head  the  shields  are  stained  with  rust, 
The  wind  has  taken  his  spoil,  the  moth  his  part; 
Dust  of  dead  men  beneath  my  knees,  and  dust, 
Lord,  in  my  heart. 

Lay  Thou  the  hand  of  faith  upon  my  fears; 
The  priest  has  prayed,  the  silver  bell  has  rung, 
But  not  for  him.     O  unforgotten  tears, 
He  was  so  young! 

Shine,  little  lamp,  nor  let  thy  light  grow  dim. 
Into  what  vast,  dread  dreams,  what  lonely  lands, 
Into  what  griefs  hath  death  delivered  him. 
Far  from  my  hands? 

13 


The  Lamp  of  Poor  Souls 

Cradled  is  he,  with  half  his  prayers  forgot. 
I  cannot  learn  the  level  way  he  goes. 
He  whom  the  harvest  hath  remembered  not 
Sleeps  with  the  rose. 

Shine,  little  lamp,  fed  with  sweet  oil  of  prayers. 
Shine,  little  lamp,  as  God's  own  eyes  may  shine, 
When  He  treads  softly  down  His  starry  stairs 
And  whispers,  "Thou  art  Mine." 

Shine,  little  lamp,  for  love  hath  fed  thy  gleam. 
Sleep,  little  soul,  by  God's  own  hands  set  free. 
Cling  to  His  arms  and  sleep,  and  sleeping,  dream, 
And  dreaming,  look  fox  me. 


14 


Song 

I  SHALL  not  go  with  pain 

Whether  you  hold  me,  whether  you  forget 

My  little  loss  and  my  Immortal  gain. 

0  flower  unseen,   O  fountain  sealed   apart! 
Give  me  one  look,  one  look  remembering  yet, 
Sweet  heart. 

1  shall  not  go  with  grief, 

Whether  you  call  me,  whether  you  deny 
The  crowning  vintage  and  the  golden  sheaf. 
O,  April  hopes  that  blossom  but  to  close! 
Give  me  one  look,  one  look  and  so  good-bye, 
Red   rose. 

I  shall  not  go  with  sighs, 

But  as  full-crowned  the  warrior  leaves  the  fight, 
Dawn  on  his  shield  and  death  upon  his  eyes. 
O,  life  so  bitter-sweet  and  heaven  so  far! 
Give  me  one  look,  one  look  and  so  good  night, 
My  star. 

15 


Birds  at  Evening 

When  the  rooks  fly  homeward,  and  the  gulls 

are  following  high, 
And  the  grey  feet  of  the  silence  with  a  silver 

dream  are  shod, 
I  mind  me  of  the  little  wings  abroad  in  every  sky 
Who  seek  their  sleep  of  God. 

When  the  dove  is  hidden,  and  the  dew  is  white 
on  the  corn, 

And  the  dark  bee  in  the  heather,  and  the  shep- 
herd with  the  sheep, 

I  mind  me  of  the  little  wings  in  the  holm-oak 
and  the  thorn 

Who  take  of  Him  their  sleep. 

When    the    brier    closes    and    the    iris-flower    is 
furled, 
And  over  the  edge  of  the  evening  the  martin 
knows  her  nest, 

i6 


Birds  at  Evening 


I  mind  me  of  the  little  hearts  abroad  in  all  the 

world 
Who  find  in  Him  their  rest. 


17 


Improvisation  on  the  Flute 

My  lost  delight,  my  guest, 
Fled  from  me  when  I  stirred, 
Silently  as  the  bird 
That  has  no  nest. 

She  has  gathered  darkness  to  build  her  a  nest 

And  the  little  leaves  of  cloud. 

She  crouches  with  her  breast  against  darkness. 

And  hides  as  a  hare  in  the  meadows  of  night. 

It  covers  her  like  long  grass 

Whose  blossom  is  all  of  stars; 

Crocus-stars,   stars   of   anemone. 

Where  cling  the  moths  that  are  the  longings  of 

men. 
She  is  born  of  the  evening, 
When   the   moon   breathes   the  scent   of   young 

thyme. 
And  the  dead  shepherds  hear  the  sheep  cropping 

in  the  dew. 

i8 


Improvisation  on  the  Flute 

She  is  slain  of  the  morning, 

When  the  thin   willow-leaves  tremble  like   fire 

Burning  the  branches, 

As  if  each  were  a  sorrow  that  burned  and  shone 

Forever. 

My  shadow,  my  desire, 

Come  to  me,  listen,  and  stay, 

Ah,  never? 

With  the  day 

She  is  gone,  she  is  gone 

Away 

Forever 

My  guest,  my  lost  delight, 
Come  nearer,  star  by  star. 
Sweet  as  the  lips  of  night 
Your  kisses  are. 


19 


An  Epitaph 

Friend,  pass  softly.     Here  is  one 
Morning  spent  her  gold  upon; 
Suns  enriched  her,  and  the  beat 
Of  April's   tide   flowed   at  her   feet. 
With  each  blossom,  lovelier  she; 
Lovelier   she   with    every   leaf. 
Spring   forgets  her  now,   and  we 
Count  her  summers  by  our  grief. 


20 


Salutaris  Hostia 

When   the  moon   is  last  awake, 
Silver-thin  above  the  fields, 
Crushed,  like  roses,  for  Thy  sake. 
All  my  soul  its  fragrance  yields. 
All  my  hungry  heart  is  fed 
Sundering  sweetness  like  a  sword; 
O  my  Lord, 
Hidden  within  Thy  broken  bread. 

Hands  of  morning,   take  the  cup 

Whence  the  Life  of  Love  is  drained; 

Hold  it,  raise  it,  lift  it  up 

Till  the  lucent  heavens  be  stained. 

Joy  and  sorrow,  lip  to  lip, 

Lost  in  likeness  at  the  end, 

O  my  Friend, 

Taste  Thy  wine  of  fellowship. 

21 


Salutaris  Hostia 

All   life's  splendour,    all   life's  pride, 
Dust  are  they.     I  lay  them  down. 
They  were  thorns  that  when  You  died 
Wove  for  You  a  wounding  crown. 
But  the  brier  of  death's  in  bud, 
All  its  loveliness  he  knows, 
Sharon's   Rose, 
That  has  shared  Thy  flesh  and  blood. 


22 


Mary  Shepherdess 

When   the  heron's   in  the  high  wood   and   the 

last  long  furrow's  sown, 
With  the  herded  cloud  before  her 

and  her  sea-sweet  raiment  blown, 
Comes  Mary,  Mary  Shepherdess,  a-seeking  for 

her   own. 

Saint  James   he   calls   the  righteous   folk,    Saint 

John  he  calls  the  kind, 
Saint  Peter  seeks   the  valiant  men   all   to  loose 

or  bind, 
But  Mary  seeks  the  little  souls  that  are  so  hard 

to  find. 

All  the  little  sighing  souls  born  of  dust's  despair, 
They  who  fed  on  bitter  bread  when  the  world 

was  bare, 
Frighted  of  the  glory  gates  and  the  starry  stair. 
23 


Mary  Shepherdess 

All  about  the  windy  down,  housing  in  the  ling, 
Underneath    the    alder    bough    linnet-light    they 

cling, 
Frighted  of  the  shining  house  where  the  martyrs 

sing. 

Crying  in  the  ivy-bloom,  fingering  at  the  pane, 
Grieving   in    the    hollow    dark,    lone    along  the 

rain, — 
Mary,  Mary  Shepherdess  gathers  them  again. 

And  O,  the  wandering  women  know,  in  work- 
house and  in  shed, 

They  dream  on  Mary  Shepherdess  with  doves 
about  her  head. 

And  pleasant  posies  in  her  hand,  and  sorrow  com- 
forted. 

Saying:  There's  my  little  lass,   faring  fine   and 

free. 
There's  the  little  lad   I  laid  by  the  holly  tree. 
Dreaming:  There'?  lY^y  n:aneless  bairn  laughing 

at  her  knee. 

24 


Mary  Shepherdess 

When    the   bracken-harvest's   gathered    and    the 

frost  is  on  the  loam, 
When  the  dream  goes  out  in  silence  and  the  ebb 

runs  out  in  foam, 
Mary,  Mary  Shepherdess,  she  bids  the  lost  lambs 

home. 

If  I  had  a  little  maid  to  turn  my  tears  away, 
If  I  had  a  little  lad  to  lead  me  when  I'm  grey, 
All  to  Mary  Shepherdess  they'd  fold  their  hands 
and  pray. 


25 


Vale 

Pass  on,  beloved.    I  seek  no  sign  of  you 

Of  faith,  or  faith's  farewell. 

All  that  I  had,  I  hold  divine  of  you; 

Before  these  shadows  fell 

I  wrought  for  you  an  altar  and  a  crown 

Too  dear  for  death  to  dim,  or  life  cast  down. 

Pass  on,  my  heart.     I  ask  no  care  of  you, 
To  hold  all  time  in  trust. 
It  is  enough  I  keep  my  share  of  you 
A  little  from  the  dust. 

And  when  Immortal  morning  opes  her  door. 
Pass  through,  my  dream.    You  do  not  leave  me 
poor. 

Pass  on,  beloved.     I  ask  no  grief  of  you. 
No  sadness,  no  regret. 

Those  days,  those  nights,  a  garnered  sheaf  of  you, 
Are  in  my  treasury  yet ; 
26 


Vale 

And  there,  beyond  the  laurels  and  the  doves — 
Is  it  your  face,  or  Is  it  only  love's? 

Yea,   you   are  one,   you  twain  who   dwelled  to- 
gether, 
And  lovers  In  this  place, 

Dark  with  green  silence  under  the  gold  weather, 
Shall   see   one   star-like    face, 
And  name  you  love,  and  linger,  and  draw  near, 
Happy  to  know  what  gods  were  worshipped  here. 


27 


Two  Lyrics 
I 

All  in  a  rainy  hazel  wood 
I  watched  the  hyacinth  break 
Her  lucent  sheath,  as  if  she  could 
Make  summer  for  your  sake. 

And  year  by  year  the  hyacinth-tide 
Breaks  in  a  foam  of  flowers 
For  other  loves  than  we  denied 
And  other  griefs  than  ours. 

Long  wed,  long  dead,  so  I've  been  told, 
But  still  when  Spring's  set  free, 
All  in  a  drift  of  rainy  gold 
You  walk  the  wood  with  me. 

II 

How  looked  she  when  she  breathed  good-bye? 
Most  like  a  bird,  whose  breast 
28 


Two  Lyrics 

Across  a  thousand  wastes  of  sky 
Is  constant  to  her  nest. 

How  looked  she  when  she  turned  away? 

Most  as  a  spirit  might, 

Who  shared  our  sorrow  for  a  day 

Yet  kept  her  home  in  sight. 

O,  looked  she  sad  or  seemed  she  glad? 
Most  like  a  star,  that  knows 
Only  the  loveliness  it  had, 
The  light  to  which  it  goes. 


29 


On  Amaryllis 

A  Tortoyse 

My  name  was  Amaryllis.     I 

From  a  harde  Shell  put  forthe  to  fly; 

No  Bird,  alas!  with  Beautie  prim'd, 

Hath  Death  th'  inconstant  Fowler  lim*d. 

No  antick  Moth  on  Blossoms  set 

Hath  Judgement  taken  in  a  Net. 

So  dull,  so  slowe,  so  meeke  I  went 

In  my  House-Roof  that  pay'd  no  Rent, 

E'en  my  deare  Mistresse  guess'd  no  Spark 

Could  e'er  enlight'n  my  dustie  Dark. 

Judge  not,  ye  Proud.    Each  lowlie  Thing 
May  lack  the  Voyce,  not   Heart,   to  sing. 
The  Worme  that  from  the  Moulde  suspires 
May  be  attun'd  with  heavcnlie  Quires, 
And  I,  a-crawling  in  my  Straw, 
Was  moved  by  Love,  and  made  by  Law. 
30 


On  Amaryllis 

So  all  ye  wise,  who  'neath  your  Clod 
Go  creeping  onwards  up  to  God, 
Take  Heart  of  me,  who  by  His  Grace, 
Slough'd  off  my  Pris'n  and  won  my  Race. 


31 


Wiltshire 

I  DIED  o'  cider  and  taters 
When  I  wer  a-turned  four-score. 
Us  always  wer  hearty  aters, 
My  feyther  he  wer  afore. 

And  the  Laard  dun't  hold  I  a  sinner, 
The  neighbourly  angel  said, 
Because  I  wer  set  on  my  dinner, 
For  a  man  must  goo  full-fed. 

But  now  I  be  done  wi'  feedin*, 
And  a  taaste  at  the  market-town. 
'Tis  all  so  idle  as  Eden 
In  the  great  grey  lift  o'  the  down. 

Over  the  turv  and  the  tillage 
The  angels  gossip  in  pairs, 
Most  like  to  folk  in  the  village 
When  the  pigs  was  fat  for  the  fairs. 
32 


Wiltshire 

Over  the  hill  goos  Master, 
Wi*  a  tarrible  flock  o*  sheep, 
Peace  is  the  chosen  pastur'. 
The  Laard  He  doth  us  keep. 

Now  I  be  laid  in  the  grasses, 
For  I  come  a  gaate  of  a  way, 
And  I  hear  how  the  Master  passes 
The  folk  wi'  the  time  o'  day. 

But  I  wun't  be  idle  longer. 
Laid  here  V  the  bloom  and  the  seed, 
I'll  goo  to  He  when  I'm  stronger. 
He'll  give  I  lambs  to  lead. 

1*11  ask  but  six  or  seven, 
And  I'll  lay,  when  the  hurdling's  done, 
On  the  great  green  downs  o'  heaven, 
And  sleep  in  the  livin'  Sun. 


33 


Gold  Dawn 

Day  came  like  a  dove 
To  the  apple  trees  and  the  wheat, 
Her  feathers  were  golden  as  love 
And  silver  her  feet. 

A  song  or  a  shower 
Shook  the  sweet  leaf-shadows  apart, 
And  like  the  white  moth  on  the  flower 
Clung  the  dream  to  my  heart. 

And  I  know  not  now 
What  the  dawn  made  dear  to  me  there, 
But  gold  was  the  light  on  the  bough 
And  silver  the  air. 


34 


Departure 

She  went.    She  left  no  trace  to  find  her, 
No  word  with  wind  or  flower, 
No  rose,  no  rose  let  fall  behind  her 
That  lasted  but  an  hour. 

She  went.     She  left  no  following  voices, 
No  sign  with  star  or  stream, 
Yet  still  the  dreaming  earth   rejoices 
It  knew  her  from  a  dream. 


35 


Dimitte  Mortuos 

Remember?     Nay,  they'll  not  remember 
Long,   ere  the  spark 
Of  every  breath-warmed,  love-lit  ember 
Die  in  the  dark. 

Grieve?  Would  you  burden  them  w^ith  grieving? 
Tears,  while  you  slept? 
Or  is  this  haunted  world  you're  leaving 
Worthily  wept? 

Here  on  the  shore  the  sweet  sea's  giving 
Has  left,  O  man, 

A  flower  of  pearl,  a  flake,  outliving 
Thy  loftiest  span. 

Raise,  with  the  hand  that  death  is  taking. 
The  brimming  shell, 

And  wish  them,  half  'twixt  sleep  and  waking, 
Hail  and  farewell. 

36 


Song 

O,  Life  is  as  a  flower  is,  and  my  days  go  down 

Like  the  ships  with  their  lading  from  the  star- 
white  town. 

Their  holds  are  full  of  apples,  and  my  days  go 
from  me 

Like  the  fruit-sweet  sails  that  are  lost  over  sea. 

O,  some  have  willow-baskets  a-swinging  in  the 

hold 
And  some  have  hawthorn-honey  in  pots  all  of 

gold, 
And  some  have  seeds  of  moonwort  and  thyme  and 

rosemary 
For  the  little  island  children  that  are  weary  of 

the  sea. 

O,  moonwort  of  the  winter  was  silvered  for  a 

bride 
In  a  low  green  garden  that  never  knew  the  tide, 
37 


Song 

And  the  rosemary  was  gathered  and  the  thyme 

grown  free 
By  a  river  and  a  rosebush  and  a  round  yew  tree. 

The  thyme  will  crown  the  sheep-walks,  the  rose- 
mary will  grow 

Sea-grey  along  the  sea-marks,  but  I  shall  never 
know. 

For  life  is  as  a  leaf  is,  and  like  a  flower  it  fails 

With  the  last  light  of  heaven  on  the  fruit-sweet 
sails. 


38 


Travellers'-Joy 

Lad  of  my  heart,  there's  never  a  rose 
In  the  oak-carr  or  the  grey  gorse  cover, 
But  the  young  year  dances,  the  old  year  goes 
To  the  way  of  a  lass  and  the  way  of  her  lover. 
Up,  we  must  up,   for  the  moon's  a-chill, 
And  love  and  a  song  alike  grow  still. 
The  swift  wings  gather,  the  strong  wings  wait, 
And  travellers '-joy  goes  over  the  gate. 

Virgin's-bower  for  the  milk-foot  May 

And  the  brown  wood-runners  that  range  behind 

her; 
When  the  rains  come  and  the  world's  in  grey, 
Who  shall  beckon  her,  who  shall  bind  her? 
Fled,  she  is  fled  with  the  starry  fire, 
And  the  orchards  blossoming,  shire  on  shire. 
But  the  young  moon  silvers  the  evening's  edge, 
And   travellers'-joy   goes  over   the  hedge. 
39 


Travellers'-Joy 

Old-man's-beard  for  the  journey's  end, 

The  ways  that  wearied,  the  paths  that  tried  us, 

But  Death  the  lover  and  Sleep  the  friend, 

Tall  as  the  angels,  tramp  beside  us. 

Far  hills  calling  us,  peak  on  peak, 

A  road  to  find  and  a  rest  to  seek, 

— Youth  goes  lightly  and  love  goes  brave, 

But  travellers'-joy  goes  over  the  grave. 


40 


The  Young  Baptist 

A  SLEEKED  mimosa  hid  him  from  the  rain. 
He  saw  the  quickened  valleys  gleam  and  go 
And  the  clouds  break  upon  a  hundred  hills, 
Till  all  the  happy  silence  had  a  sound, 
Voice  upon  voice,  small  as  the  voice  of  God 
In  Sinai,  but  the  earth  shook  under  them. 
He  saw  the  moonlit  rafters  of  the  world. 
Hollowed  in  thunder,  walled  with  exquisite  air, 
Most  beautiful.     The  leaves  were  laced  with 

showers, 
And  motionless  beneath  them  couched  the  flies. 
Bright  as  small  seraphs  lately  loosed  from  heaven 
Upon  the  river'd  garden  beautiful. 
Beautiful  they,  and  beautiful  the  bird 
That  flashed  on  him  a  sudden  breast  and  fled. 
Over  a  fire  of  twisted  camel-thorn 
He  saw  the  vast  recessional  of  day 
And  shivered  against  the  dark,  and  knew  no  rest; 
41 


The  Young  Baptist 

Yet  even  the  dark  was  lovely.     Only  he 
Was  worn  with  hungering  after  righteousness, 
Fouled  with  strange  suffering,  dim  with  many 

dreams. 
The  foxes  barked  against  him  all  night  long. 

Daw^n  rose  in  silver,  shepherding  few  stars. 
He  watched  it,  all  one  hunger,  body  and  soul. 
"There  is  a  painted  house  in  Nazareth," 
He  said,  "once  held  a  little  friend,  clear-eyed. 
There  all  day  long  the  whining  plane  moves  over 
The  curded  length  of  olive  wood,  and  light 
Bright  shavings  make  the  footfall  cedar-sweet. 
A  woman  sits  there  in  the  shadow  of  leaves, 
Watching  her  men  at  work,  two  carpenters, 
While  mirrored  angels  move  in  her  still  eyes. 
Yea,  is  it  time?     Shall  one  lay  down  His  tools 
And  turn  away?     To-night  the  fly  shall  sleep 
In  lily  or  white  cyclamen,  the  bird 
Shall  find  the  shittim  tree  that  held  her  brood. 
Shall  I  be  homeless?    Lily  of  Israel,  bloom. 
O  Tree  of  Life,  make  ready  my  soul's  nest. 
42 


The  Young  Baptist 

Yea,  is  He  come?" 

But  only  morning  came, 
Clear-footed  from  the  frontiers  of  the  world, 
And  beat  his  little  fire  out  as  with  spears. 
Beautiful  on  the  mountains  were  her  feet. 


43 


Armorel 

When  within  the  rippling  tide 
Shakes  the  silver-pointed  moon, 
When  the  rainbow  flies  of  noon 
All  have  died, 

When  the  bats  go  wheeling  far, 
And  the  mournful  owl  has  cried 
Twice  or  thrice  a-down  the  glen 
Grey  with  gathering  shade,  and  when 
Gates  o'  dream  are  held  ajar, — 
From  the  alders  in  the  dell, 
From  the  bracken  fronds  astir, 
Elfin  voices  call  to  her, — 

"Armorel!" 

She  shall  glide  the  garden  down, 
Treading  softly,  treading  slow. 
And  with  silent  feet  shall  go 
44 


Armorel 

Past  the  Mary-lilies  white, 
Past  the  pansies,  gold  and  brown, 
Grown  for  her  delight. 
One  white  moth  her  guide  shall  be, 
She  shall  follow  where  he  flies, 
Patiently,  with   dream-lit  eyes; 
Past  the  thyme  and  savoury. 
Past  the  mystic  asphodel, 
For  the  voices  in  her  ear 
Call  her  softly,  call  her  clear, — 
"Armorel!" 

Into  valleys  strange  and  dim, 
All  unseen  and  all  unknown. 
Fleetly  shall  she  follow  him, 
Fairy-led,   alone. 
She  shall  hear  within  the  brake 
Elfin  crickets  pipe  and  sing, 
While  the  elfin  spiders  make 
Sendal  for  her  furnishing, 
Red   as  pimpernel. 
She  shall  see  the  dreams  go  by. 
Silver-pinioned,  through  the  sky; 
45 


Armorel 

Where  she  wanders  none  may  tell, 
But  the  voices  come  and  go, 
Calling  sweetly,  calling  low, 
"Armorel!'^ 


46 


The  Little  Fauns  to  Proserpine 

Browner  than  the  hazel-husk,  swifter  than  the 
wind, 

Though  you  turn  from  heath  and  hill,  we  are 
hard  behind, 

Singing,  "Ere  the  sorrows  rise,  ere  the  gates  un- 
close 

Bind  above  your  wistful  eyes  the  memory  of  a 
rose." 

Dark  lacchus  pipes  the  kine  shivering  from  the 
whin, 

Wraps  him  in  a  she-goat's  fell  above  the  panther 
skin. 

Now  we  husk  the  corn  for  bread,  turn  the  mill 
for  hire. 

Hoof  by  hoof  and  head  by  head  about  the  herds- 
man's fire. 

47 


The  Little  Fauns  to  Proserpine 

AI,  Adonis,  where  he  gleams,  slender  and  at  rest, 
One  has  built  a  roof  of  dreams  where  the  white 

doves  nest. 
Ere  they  bring  the  wine-dark  bowl,  ere  the  gates 

unbar. 
Take,  O  take  within  your  soul  the  shadow  of  a 

star. 

Now  the  vintage  feast  is  done,  now  the  melons 

glow 
Gold  along  the  raftered  thatch  beneath  a  thread 

of  snow. 
Dian's  bugle  bids  the  dawn  sweep  the  upland 

clear, 
Where  we  snared  the  silken  fawn,  where  we  ran 

the  deer. 

Through  the  dark  reeds  wet  with  rain,  past  the 

singing  foam 
Went  the  light-foot  Mysian  maids,  calling  Hylas 

home. 
Syrinx  felt  the  silver  spell  fold  her  at  her  need.- 
Hear,  ere  yet  you  say  farewell,  the  wind  along 

the  reed. 

48 


The  Little  Fauns  to  Proserpine 

Golden  as  the  earliest  leaf  loosened  from  the 
spray, 

Grave  Alcestis  drank  of  grief  for  her  lord's  delay. 

Ere  you  choose  the  bitter  part,  learn  the  change- 
less wrong, 

Bind  above  your  breaking  heart  the  echo  of  a 
song. 

Now  the  chestnut  burrs  are  down;  aspenshaws 

are  pale; 
Now  across  the  plunging  reef  reels  the  last  red 

sail. 
Ere  the  wild,  black  horses  cry,  ere  the  night  has 

birth, 
Take,  ere  yet  you  say  good-bye,  the  love  of  all 

the  earth. 


49 


Wanderlied 

O,  WEST  of  all  the  westward  roads  that  woo  ye 

to  their  winding, 
O,  south  of  all  the  southward  ways  that  call  ye 

to  the  sea, 
There's  a  little  lonely  garden  that  would  pay 

ye  for  the  finding, 
With  a  fairy-ring  within   it  and   an  old  thorn 

tree. 

O,  there  upon,  the  brink  of  morn  the  thrushes 

would  be  calling, 
And  the  little  lilting  linnets,  sure  they'd  wake 

me  from  the  dead; 
With  the  lime  trees  all  in  blossom  and  the  soft 

leaf-shadows  falling, 
O,  there  I'd  have  a  place  at  last  to  lay  my  head. 

O,  would  I  had  a  swallow's  wings,  for  then  I'd 
fly  and  find  it; 

50 


Wanderlied 

O,  would  I  had  a  swallow's  heart,  for  then  I'd 

love  to  roam! 
With  an  orchard  on  the  hillside  and  an  old,  old 

man  to  mind  it, 
O,  there  I'd  lift  my  lodge  at  last  and  make  my 

home. 

O,  there  I'd  see  the  tide  come  in  along  the  whis- 
pering reaches, 

O,  there  I'd  lie  and  watch  the  sails  go  shining 
to  the  west. 

And  where  the  fir-wood  follows  on  the  wide  un- 
swerving beaches. 

It's  there  I'd  lay  me  down  at  last  and  take  my 
rest. 


51 


To  Alcithoe 

In  your  dim  Greece  of  old,  Alcithoe, 

Death  like    a    lover    sought    and    crowned    you 

young, 
Between  the  olive  orchards  and  the  sea. 

When  they  had  twined  your  myrtle-buds,  and 

hung 
The  stately  cypress  at  your  door,  they  said, 
"Alcithoe  is  dead. 

Before  whose  feet  the  flaming  crocus  sprung. 
For  whom  the  red  rose  opened  ere  the  prime; 
Those    the   gods    love    are    taken    before   their 

time." — 

Ah !  why  did  no  one,  watching  you  alone, 
Snare  your  dead  beauty  in  undying  stone? 
The  gold  hair  bound  beneath  its  golden  band, 
The  milk-white  poppies  closed  within  your  hand  ; 
That  the  harsh  world  a  little  space  might  keep 
The  last,  still,  exquisite  vision  of  your  sleep. 
52 


The  Sea  Witch 

Endlessly  fell  her  chestnut  flowers, 
Faint  snow  throughout  the  honeyed  dark; 
The  myrtle  spread  his  boughs  to  drink 
Deep  draughts  of  salt  from  the  sea's  brink, 
And  like  a  moon-dial  swun^  her  tower's 
Straight  shadow  o'er  her  warded  park. 

From  her  calm  coasts  the  galleons  fled, 

The  fisher  steered  him  farther  west. 

No  port  was  hailed,  no  keel  came  home 

Across  that  pale,  enchanted  foam, 

But  by  her  roof  the  thrushes  fed 

And  wandering  swallows  found  their  rest. 

The  shadows  touched  her  tenderly. 
The  red  beam  lingered  on  her  dress; 
The  white  gull  and  the  osprey  knew 
Her  tower  across  the  leagues  of  blue. 
The  wild  swan  when  he  sought  the  sea 
Was  laggard  through  her  loveliness. 
53 


The  Immortal 

Beauty  is  still  immortal  in  our  eyes; 

When  sways  no  more  the  spirit-haunted  reed, 

When  the  wild  grape  shall  build 

No  more  her  canopies, 

When  blows  no  more  the  moon-grey  thistle  seed, 

When  the  last  bell  has  lulled  the  white  flocks 

home, 
When  the  last  eve  has  stilled 
The   wandering   wing   and   touched   the   dying 

foam, 
When  the  last  moon  burns  low,  and,  spark  by 

spark, 
The  little  worlds  die  out  along  the  dark, — 

Beauty  that  rosed  the  moth-wing,  touched  the 

land 
With  clover-horns  and  delicate  faint  flowers. 
Beauty  that  bade  the  showers 

54 


The  Immortal 

Beat  on  the  violet's  face, 

Shall  hold  the  eternal  heavens  within  their  place 
And  hear  new  stars  come  singing  from  God's 
hand. 


55 


Dawn 

O,  KEEP  the  world  forever  at  the  dawn, 

Ere  yet  the  opals,  cobweb-strung,  have  dried, 

Ere  yet  too  bounteous  gifts  have  marred  the  morn 

Or  fading  stars  have  died. 

O,  keep  the  eastern  gold  no  wider  than 

An  angel's  finger-span, 

And  hush  the  increasing  thunder  of  the  sea 

To  murmuring  melody 

In  those  fair  coves  where  tempests  ne'er  should  be. 

Hold  back  the  line  of  shoreward-sweeping  surge 

And  veil  each  deep  sea-pool  in  pearlier  mist. 

Ere  yet  the  silver  ripples  on  the  verge 

Have  turned  to  amethyst. 

Fling  back  the  chariot  of  encroaching  day 

And  call  the  winds  away 

Ere  yet  they  sigh,  and  let  the  hastening  sun 

Along  his  path  in  heaven  no  higher  run, 

56 


Dawn 

But  show  through  all  the  years  his  golden  rim 
With  shadows  lingering  dim 
Forever  o'er  the  world  awaiting  him. 

Hold  every  bird  with  still  and  drowsy  wing, 

That  in  the  breathless  hush  no  clamorous  throat 

Shall  break  the  peace  that  hangs  on  everything 

With  shrill  awakening  note; 

Keep  fast  the  half-seen  beauties  of  the  rose 

In  undisturbed  repose, 

Check  all  the  iris  buds  where  they  unfold 

Impatient  from  their  hold, 

And  close  the  cowslips'  cups  of  honeyed  gold. 

Keep  all  things  hushed,  so  hushed  we  seem  to  hear 
The  sounds  of  low-swung  clouds  that  sweep  the 

trees  ; 
Let  now^  no  harsher  music  reach  the  ear, 
No  earthlier  sounds  than  these, 
When   whispering    shadows   move    within    the 

grass. 
And  airy  tremors  pass 

57 


Dawn 

Through    all    the    earth    with    life    awakening 

thrilled, 
And  so  forever  stilled, 
Too  sweet  in  promise  e'er  to  be  fulfilled. 

O,  keep  the  world  forever  at  the  dawn. 

Yet,  keeping  so,  let  nothing  lifeless  seem. 

But  hushed;,  as  if  the  miracle  of  morn 

Were  trembling  in  its  dream. 

Some  shadowy  moth  may  pass  with  downy  flight 

And  fade  before  the  sight, 

While  in  the  unlightened  darkness  of  the  wall 

The  chirping  crickets  call; 

From  forest  pools  where  fragrant  lilies  are 

A  breath  shall  pass  afar, 

And  o'er  the  crested  pine  shall  hang  one  star. 


S8 


Evening 

When  the  white  iris  folds  the  drowsing  bee, 

When  the  first  cricket  wakes 

The  fairy  hosts  of  his  enchanted  brakes, 

When  the  dark  moth  has  sought  the  lilac  tree, 

And  the  young  stars,  like  jasmine  of  the  skies, 

Are  opening  on  the  silence,  Lord,  there  lies 

Dew  on  Thy  rose  and  dream  upon  mine  eyes. 

Lovely  the  day,  when  life  is  robed  in  splendour, 
Walking  the  ways  of  God  and  strong  with  wnne. 
But  the  pale  eve  is  w^onderful  and  tender, 
And  night  is  more  divine. 

Fold  my  faint  olives  from  their  shimmering  plain, 
O  shadow  of  sweet  darkness  fringed  with  rain. 
Give  me  tonight  again. 

Give  me  today  no  more.     I  have  bethought  me 

Silence  is  more  than  laughter,  sleep  than  tears. 

59 


Evening 

Sleep  like  a  lover  faithfully  hath  sought  me 
Down  the  enduring  years. 
Where  stray  the  first  white  fatlings  of  the  fold, 
Where  the  Lent-lily  droops  her  earlier  gold 
Sleep  waits  me  as  of  old. 

Grant  me  sweet  sleep,  for  light  is  unavailing 
When  patient  eyes  grow  weary  of  the  day. 
Young  lambs  creep  close  and  tender  wings  are 

failing. 
And  I  grow  tired  as  they. 

Light  as  the  long  wave  leaves  the  lonely  shore, 
Our  boughs  have  lost  the  bloom  that  morning 

bore. 
Give  me  today  no  more. 


60 


The  Green  Month" 

What  of  all  the  colours  shall  I  bring  you  for 

your  fairing, 
Fit  to  lay  your  fingers  on,  fine  enough  for  you  ? — 
Yellow   for   the  ripened   rye,   white  for  ladies' 

wearing, 
Red  for  briar-roses,  or  the  skies'  own  blue? 

Nay,  for  spring  has  touched  the  elm,  spring  has 

found  the  willow. 
Winds   that   call   the  swallow  home   sway  the 

boughs  apart; 
Green  shall  all  my  curtains  be,  green  shall  be  my 

pillow, 
Green  I'll  wear  within  my  hair,  and  green  upon 

my  heart. 


6t 


Song  of  Late  September 

In  this  irised  net  I  keep 

All  the  moth-winged  winds  of  sleep, 

In  this  basket  woven  of  willow 

I  have  silk-weed  for  your  pillow. 

In  this  pouch  of  plaited  reeds 

Stars  I  bear  for  silver  beads. 

Choose  my  pippins  for  your  money, 

Reddening  pears  as  smooth  as  honey, 

Golden  grapes  and  apricots, 

Herbs  from  well-grown  garden  plots; 

Basil,  balm,  and  savoury. 

All  sweet-smelling  things  there  be. 

Fruits  a  many  and  flowers  a  few, — 

Fiery  dahlias  drooped  in  dew. 

Wood-grown  asters  faint  as  smoke, 

Flame  of  maple,  frond  of  oak. 

In  this  box  of  foreign  woods 
I  have  delicate  woven  goods; 
62 


Song  of  Late  September 

Orient  laces  light  as  mist, 
Amber  veils  and   amethyst, 
Ivory  pins  like  hardened  milk. 
Cloaks  of  silver-shining  silk 
Wrought  with  strange  embroideries 
Of  peacock  plumes  and  rose-berries. 
Buy  a  king's  crown  lost  of  old, 
Dark  with  sardius  sunk  in  gold. 
Buy  my  gloves  of  spiders  spun, 
Cool  as  water,  warm  as  sun; 
Buy  my  shoon  of  yellow  leathers 
Lined  with  fur  and  owlet  feathers; 
Buy  a  chain  of  emerald  stones 
Or  scarlet  seeds  or  cedar  cones. 
All  sweet,  delicate  things  there  be 
Honest  folk  may  buy  of  me. 
Ere  the  earliest  thrush  has  flown 
In  my  eyes  the  dawns  are  shown. 
On  my  lips   the  summer  lingers, 
Rain  has  jewelled  all  my  fingers; 
In  my  hand  the  crickets  s'ng, 
And  the  moon's  my  golden  ring. 


63 


Frost  Song 

Here  where  the  bee  slept  and  the  orchis  lifted 
Her  honeying  pipes  of  pearl,  her  velvet  lip, 
Only  the  swart  leaves  of  the  oak  lie  drifted 
In  sombre  fellowship. 

Here  where  the  flame-weed  set  the  lands  alight, 
Lies  the  bleak  upland,  webbed  and  crowned  with 
white. 

Build  high  the  logs,  O  love,  and  in  thine  eyes 
Let  me  believe  the  summer  lingers  late. 
We  shall  not  miss  her  passive  pageantries, 
We  are  not  desolate, 

When  on  the  sill,  across  the  window  bars, 
Kind  winter  flings  her  flowers  and  her  stars. 


64 


Dream  River 

Wind-silvered  willows  hedge  the  stream, 

And  all  within  is  hushed  and  cool. 

The  water,  in  an  endless  dream, 

Goes  sliding  down  from  pool  to  pool. 

And  every  pool  a  sapphire  is, 

From  shadowy  deep  to  sunlit  edge, 

Ribboned  around  with  irises 

And  cleft  with  emerald  spears  of  sedge. 

O,  every  morn  the  winds  are  stilled, 
The  sunlight  falls  in  amber  bars. 
O,  every  night  the  pools  are  filled 
With  silver  brede  of  shaken  stars. 
O,  every  morn  the  sparrow  flings 
His  elfin  trills  athwart  the  hush, 
And  here  unseen  at  eve  there  sings 
One  crystal-throated  hermit- thrush. 


65 


Swallows 

O  LITTLE  hearts,  beat  home,  beat  home, 

Here  Is  no  place  to  rest. 

Night  darkens  on  the  falling  foam 

And  on  the  fading  west. 

O  little  wings,  beat  home,  beat  home. 

Love  may  no  longer  roam. 

O,  Love  has  touched  the  fields  of  wheat 
And  Love  has  crowned  the  corn, 
And  we  must  follow  Love's  white  feet 
Through  all  the  ways  of  morn. 
Through  all  the  silver  roads  of  air 
We  pass  and  have  no  care. 

The  silver  roads  of  Love  are  wide, 
O  winds  that  turn,  O  stars  that  guide, 
Sweet  are  the  ways  that  Love  has  trod 
Through  the  clear  skies  that  reach  to  God. 
But  in  the  cliff-grass  Love  builds  deep 
A  place  where  wandering  wings  may  sleep. 
66 


The  Pool 

Come  with  me,  follow  me,  swift  as  a  moth, 

Ere  the  w^ood-doves  waken. 

Lift  the  long  leaves  and  look  down,  look  down 

Where  the  light  is  shaken, 

Amber  and  brown, 

On  the  woven  ivory  roots  of  the  reed. 

On  a  floating  flovv^er  and  a  weft  of  weed 

And  a  feather  of  froth. 

Here  in  the  night  all  wonders  are. 

Lapped  in  the  lift  of  the  ripple's  svdng, — 

A  silver  shell  and  a  shaken  star, 

And  a  white  moth's  wing. 

Here  the  young  moon  when  the  mists  unclose 

Swims  like  the  bud  of  a  golden  rose. 

I  would  live  like  an  elf  where  the  wild  grapes 

cling, 
I  would  chase  the  thrush 

67 


The  Pool 

From  the  red  rose-berries. 

All  the  day  long  I  would  laugh  and  swing 

With  the  black  choke-cherries. 

I    would    shake    the  bees   from  the  milkweed 

blooms, 
And  cool,  O  cool, 

Night  after  night  I  would  leap  in  the  pool, 
And  sleep  with  the  fish  in  the  roots  of  the  rush. 
Clear,  O  clear  my  dreams  should  be  made 
Of  emerald  light  and  amber  shade. 
Of  silver  shallows  and  golden  glooms. 
Sweet,  O  sweet  my  dreams  should  be 
As  the  dark,  sweet  water  enfolding  me 
Safe  as  a  blind  shell  under  the  sea. 


68 


O  Silver  Rose 

The  dark  hour  turns  so  slowly  and  so  sweet, 
The  last  still  hour  soft-fallen  from  the  stars. 
To-morrow  I  may  kneel  and  touch  thy  feet, 
O  Rose  of  all  Shiraz. 

Lay  wide  thine  amorous  lattice  to  the  south, 
O  Silver  Rose,  when  roses  breathe  thy  name, 
And  thou  at  dawn  shalt  feel  upon  thy  mouth 
The  kiss  I  dared  not  claim. 

Discrowned,    dishonoured,    reft    of    pride    and 

power, 
From  the  red  battle  where  they  hailed  me  lord, 

0  Silver  Rose,  O  sweet  Pomegranate  Flower, 

1  turn  me  to  their  sword. 

Life  hath  so  held  me  to  an  empty  part. 

Life  hath  so  snared  me,  bound  and  made  me 

blind. 
To-morrow  I  may  rest  upon  thy  heart, 
For  death  shall  prove  more  kind. 

69 


The  Bridegroom  of  Cana 

"There  nuas  a  marriage  in  Cana  of  Galilee.  .  .  . 
And  both  Jesus  'was  called,  and  His  disciples,  to  the 
marriage." 

Veil  thine  eyes,  O  beloved,  my  spouse, 
Turn  them  away, 

Lest  in  their  light  my  life  withdrawn 
Dies  as  a  star,  as  a  star  in  the  day, 
As  a  dream  in  the  dawn. 


Slenderly  hang  the  olive  leaves 
Sighing  apart; 

The  rose  and  silver  doves  in  the  eaves 
With  a  murmur  of  music  bind  our  house. 
Honey  and  wine  in  thy  words  are  stored, 
Thy  lips  are  bright  as  the  edge  of  a  sword 
That  hath  found  my  heart. 
That  hath  found  my  heart. 
70 


The  Bridegroom  of  Cana 

Sweet,  I  have  waked  from  a  dream  of  thee, — 

And  of  Him. 

He  who  came  when  the  songs  were  done. 

From  the  net  of  thy  smiles  my  heart  went  free 

And  the  golden  lure  of  thy  love  grew  dim. 

I  turned  to  them  asking,  "Who  is  He, 

Royal  and  sad,  who  comes  to  the  feast 

And  sits  Him  down  in  the  place  of  the  least?" 

And  they  said,  "He  is  Jesus,  the  carpenter's  son." 

Hear  how  my  harp  on  a  single  string 

Murmurs  of  love. 

Down  in  the  fields  the  thrushes  sing 

And  the  lark  is  lost  in  the  light  above, 

Lost  in  the  infinite,  glowing  whole, 

As  I  in  thy  soul, 

As  I  in  thy  soul. 

Love,  I  am  fain  for  thy  glowing  grace 

As  the  pool  for  the  star,  as  the  rain  for  the  rill. 

Turn  to  me,  trust  to  me,  mirror  me 

As  the  star  in  the  pool,  as  the  cloud  in  the  sea. 

Love,  I  looked  awhile  in  His  face 

And  was  still. 

71 


The  Bridegroom  of  Cana 

The  shaft  of  the  dawn  strikes  clear  and  sharp: 

Hush,  my  harp. 

Hush,  my  harp,  for  the  day  is  begun, 

And  the  lifting,  shimmering  flight  of  the  swallow 

Breaks  in  a  curve  on  the  brink  of  morn, 

Over  the  sycamores,  over  the  corn. 

Cling  to  me,  cleave  to  me,  prison  me 

As  the  mote  in  the  flame,  as  the  shell  in  the  sea, 

For  the  winds  of  the  dawn  say,  "Follow,  follow 

Jesus  Bar- Joseph,  the  carpenter's  son." 


72 


A  Mother  in  Egypt 

"About  midnight  nvill  I  go  out  into  the  midst 
of  Egypt:  and  all  the  firstborn  in  the  land  of  Egypt 
shall  die,  from  the  firstborn  of  Pharaoh  that  sitteth 
upon  the  throne,  even  unto  the  firstborn  of  the  maid- 
servant that  is  behind  the  mill." 

Is  the  noise  of  grief  in  the  palace  over  the  river 

For  this  silent  one  at  my  side? 

There  came  a  hush  in  the  night,  and  he  rose  w\\h 

his  hands   a-quiver 
Like  lotus  petals  adrift  on  the  swing  of  the  tide. 
O  small  soft  hands,   the   day  groweth   old   for 

sleeping! 
O  small  still  feet,  rise  up,  for  the  hour  is  late! 
Rise  up,  my  son,  for  I  hear  them  mourning  and 

weeping 
In  the  temple  down  by  the  gate. 

Hushed  is  the  face  that  was  wont  to  brighten  with 

laughter 
When  I  sang  at  the  mill, 
73 


A  Mother  in  Egypt 

And  silence  unbroken  shall  greet  the  sorrowful 
dawns  hereafter, 

The  house  shall  be  still. 

Voice  after  voice  takes  up  the  burden  of  wall- 
ing,— 

Do  you  heed,  do  you  hear? — in  the  high-priest's 
house  by  the  wall; 

But  mine  is  the  grief,  and  their  sorrow  is  all  un- 
availing. 

Will  he  wake  at  their  call? 

Something  I  saw  of  the  broad,  dim  wings  half 
folding 

The  passionless  brow. 

Something  I  saw  of  the  sword  the  shadowy  hands 
were  holding, — 

What  matters  it  now? 

I  held  you  close,  dear  face,  as  I  knelt  and  bark- 
ened 

To  the  wind  that  cried  last  night  like  a  soul  in  sin, 

When  the  broad,  bright  stars  dropped  down  and 
the  soft  sky  darkened, 

And  the  Presence  moved  therein. 
74 


A  Mother  in  Egypt 

I  have  heard  men  speak  in  the  market-place  of  the 

city, 
Low  voiced,  in  a  breath, 
Of  a  god  who  is  stronger  than  ours,  and  who 

knows  not  changing  nor  pity, 
Whose  anger  is  death. 

Nothing  I  know  of  the  lords  of  the  outland  races, 
But  Amun  is  gentle  and  Hathor  the  Mother  is 

mild, 
And  who  would  descend  from  the  light  of  the 

peaceful  places 
To  war  on  a  child  ? 

Yet  here  he  lies,  with  a  scarlet  pomegranate  petal 

Blown  down  on  his  cheek. 

The  slow  sun  sinks  to  the  sand  like  a  shield  of 

some  burnished  metal, 
But  he  does  not  speak. 
I  have  called,  I  have  sung,  but  neither  will  hear 

nor  waken ; 
So  lightly,  so  whitely  he  lies  in  the  curve  of  my 

arm, 

75 


A  Mother  in  Egypt 

Like  a  feather  let  fall  from  the  bird  that  the 

arrow  hath  taken. 
Who  could  see  him,  and  harm? 

"The  swallow  flies  home  to  her  sleep  in  the  eaves 

of  the  altar, 
And  the  crane  to  her  nest," — 
So  do  we  sing  o'er  the  mill,  and  why,  ah,  why 

should  I  falter, 
Since  he  goes  to  his  rest? 
Does  he  play  in  their  flowers  as  he  played  among 

these  with  his  mother? 
Do  the  gods  smile  downward  and  love  him  and 

give  him  their  care? 
Guard  him  well,  O  ye  gods,  till  I  come;  lest  the 

wrath  of  that  Other 
Should  reach  to  him  there! 


76 


St.  Yves'  Poor 

Jeffik  was  there,  and  Matthieu,and  brown  Bran, 
Warped  in  old  wars  and  babbling  of  the  sword, 
And  Jannedik,  a  white  rose  pinched  and  paled 
With  the  world's  frosts,  and  many  more  beside, 
Lamed,  rheumed  and  palsied,  aged,  impotent 
Of  all  but  hunger  and  blind  lifted  hands. 
I  set  the  doors  wide  at  the  given  hour. 
Took  the  great  baskets  piled  with  bread,  the  fish 
Yet  silvered  of  the  sea,  the  curds  of  milk, 
And  called  them.  Brethren,  brake,  and  blest,  and 
gave. 

For  O,  my  Lord,  the  house  dove  knows  her  nest 
Above  my  window  builded  from  the  rain; 
In  the  brown  mere  the  heron  finds  her  rest, 
But  these  shall  seek  in  vain. 

And  O,  my  Lord,  the  thrush  may  fold  her  wing, 
The  curlew  seek  the  long  lift  of  the  seas, 
77 


St.  Yves'  Poor 

The  wild  swan  sleep  amid  his  journeying, — 
There  is  no  rest  for  these. 

Thy  dead  are  sheltered ;  housed  and  warmed  they 

wait 
Under  the  golden  fern,  the  falling  foam; 
But  these,  Thy  living,  wander  desolate 
And  have  not  any  home. 

I  called  them.   Brethren,  brake,   and  blest,  and 

gave. 
Old  Jeffik  had  her  withered  hand  to  show, 
Young  Jannedik  had  dreamed  of  death,  and  Bran 
Would  tell  me  wonders  wrought  on  fields  of  war, 
When  Michael  and  his  warriors  rode  the  storm. 
And  all  the  heavens  were  thrilled  with  clanging 

spears, — 
Ah,  God,  my  poor,  my  poor. — Till  there  came 

one 
Wrapped  in  foul  rags,  who  caught  me  by  the  robe. 
And  pleaded,  "Bread,  my  father." 

In  his  hand 
I  laid  the  last  loaf  of  the  daily  dole, 
Saw  on  the  palm  a  red  wound  like  a  star, 

78 


St.  Yves'  Poor 

And  bade  him,  "Let  me  bind  it." 

"These  my  wounds," 
He  answered  softly,  "daily  dost  thou  bind." 
And  I,  "My  son,  I  have  not  seen  thy  face. 
But  thy  bruised  feet  have  trodden  on  my  heart. 
I  will  get  water  for  thee." 

"These  my  hurts," 
Again  he  answered,  "daily  dost  thou  wash." 
And  I  once  more,  "My  son,  I  know  thee  not, 
But  the  bleak  wind  blows  bitter  from  the  sea, 
And  even  the  gorse  is  perished.    Rest  thou  here." 
And  he  again,  "My  rest  is  in  thy  heart. 
I  take  from  thee  as  I  have  given  to  thee. 
Dost  thou  not  know  Me,  Breton?" 

I,— "My  Lord!"— 

A  scent  of  lilies  on  the  cold  sea-wind, 
A  thin,  white  blaze  of  wings,  a  face  of  flame 
Over  the  gateway,  and  the  vision  passed, 
And  there  were  only  Matthieu  and  brown  Bran, 
And   the  young  girl,   the  foam-white  Jannedik, 
Wondering  to  see  their  father  rapt  from  them. 
And  Jeffik  weeping  o'er  her  wiiihered  hand. 
79 


The  Little  Sister  of  the  Prophet 

"If  there  arise  among  you  a  prophet  or  dreamer  .  .  ." 

I  HAVE  left  a  basket  of  dates 

In  the  cool  dark  room  that  is  under  the  vine, 

Some  curds  set  out  in  two  little  crimson  plates 

And  a  flask  of  the  amber  wine, 

And  cakes  most  cunningly  beaten 

Of  savoury  herbs,   and  spice,  and   the  delicate 

wheaten 
Flour  that  is  best, 
And  all  to  lighten  his  spirit  and  sweeten  his  rest. 

This  morning  he  cried,  "Awake, 

And  see  what  the  wonderful  grace  of  the  Lord 

hath  revealed!" 
And  we  ran  for  his  sake, 
But   'twas  only   the   dawn   outspread   o*er  our 

father's  field, 

80 


The  Little  Sister  of  the  Prophet 

And  the  house  of  the  potter  white  in  the  valley 

below. 
But  his  hands  were  upraised  to  the  east  and  he 

cried  to  us,  "So 
Ye  may  ponder  and  read 
The  strength  and  the  beauty  of  God  out-rolled 

in  a  fiery  screed !" 

Then  the  little  brown  mother  smiled, 

As  one  does  on  the  words  of  a  well-loved  child, 

And,   "Son,"  she  replied,   "have  the  oxen  been 

watered  and  fed? 
For  work  is  to  do,  though  the  skies  be  never  so 

red, 
And  already  the  first  sweet  hours  of  the  day  are 

spent." 
And  he  sighed,  and  went. 

Will  he  come  from  the  byre 

With  his  head  all  misty  with  dreams,  and  his 

eyes  on  fire, 
Shaking  us  all  with  the  weight  of  the  words  of 

his  passion? 

8i 


The  Little  Sister  of  the  Prophet 

I  will  give  him  raisins  instead  of  dates, 
And  wreathe  young  leaves  on  the  little  red  plates. 
I  will  put  on  my  new  head-tyre, 
And  braid  my  hair  in  a  comelier  fashion. 
Will  he  note?     Will  he  mind? 
Will  he  touch  my  cheek  as  he  used  to,  and  laugh 
and  be  kind? 


82 


Pieter  Marinus 

Lord,  I  have  known  all  fruits  of  this  thy  world ; 
Like  Solomon  king,  I  have  been  fain  of  all, — 
War,  women,  and  wine, — but  mine  was  spirit  of 

Nantes. 
And  now,  O  Lord,  Vm  old  and  fain  for  Thee. 
But,   Lord,  my  soul's  so  grimed  and  weather- 
worn, 
So  warped  and  wTung  with  all  iniquities, 
Piracies,  brawls,  and  cheated  revenues, 
There's  not  a  saint  but  would  look  twice  at  it. 

So,  when  my  time  comes,  send  no  angels  down 
With  lutes,  and  harps,  and  foreign  instruments. 
To  pipe  old  Pieter's  spirit  up  to  heaven 
Past  his  tall  namesake  sturdy  at  his  post. 

But  let  me  lie  awhile  in  these  Thy  seas. 
Let  the  soft  Gulf  Stream  and  the  long  South 
Drift, 

83 


Pieter  Marinus 

And  the  swift  tides  that  rim  the  Labrador, 
Beat  on  my  soul  and  wash  it  clean  again. 

And  when  Thy  waves  have  smoothed  me  of  my 

sins, 
White  as  the  sea-mew  or  the  wind-spun  foam, 
Clean  as  the  clear-cut  images  of  stars 
That  swing  between  the  swells, — then,  then,  O 

Lord, 
Lean  out,  lean  out  from  heaven  and  call  me  thus, 
"Come  up,  thou  soul  of  Pieter  Marinus," 
And  I'll  go  home. 


84 


In  the  Gardens  of  Shushan 

Be  pitiful!     Her  lips  have  touched  this  cool 
Clear  stream  that  sets  the  long  green  leaves  astir. 
The  very  doves  that  dream  beside  the  pool 
Sang  their  soft  notes  to  her. 

For  her  these  doors  that  claim  the  amorous  south, 
Bound  in  red  bronze  and  stayed  with  cedar-wood. 
And  here  the  bees  sought  honey  from  her  mouth, 
So  like  a  flovi^er  she  stood. 

For  her  the  globed  pomegranates  grew,  and  all 
Sweet   savoury    fruits    rose    perfect    from    their 

flower. 
Here  has  her  soul  known  silence  and  the  fall 
Of  each  enchanted  hour. 

Under  her  feet  all  beauty  was  laid  low, 
In  her  deep  eyes  all  beauty  was  made  clear. 

85 


In  the  Gardens  of  Shushan 

When  the  king  called  her  through  the  evening 

glow, 
"O  Vashti,  I  am  here!" 

Still  the  sweet  wells  return  to  me  her  face, 
Still  her  lost  name  on  every  wind  is  blown. 
The  shadows  and  the  silence  of  this  place 
Are  hers  alone. 


86 


Pere     Lalemant 

I  LIFT  the  Lord  on  high, 

Under  the  murmuring  hemlock  boughs,  and  see 

The  small  birds  of  the  forest  lingering  by 

And  making  melody. 

These  are  mine  acolytes  and  these  my  choir, 

And  this  mine  altar  in  the  cool  green  shade. 

Where  the  wild  soft-eyed  does  draw  nigh 

Wondering,  as  in  the  byre 

Of  Bethlehem  the  oxen  heard  Thy  cry 

And  saw  Thee,  unafraid. 

My  boatmen  sit  apart. 

Wolf-eyed,  wolf-sinewed,  stiller  than  the  trees. 

Help  me,  O  Lord,  for  very  slow  of  heart 

And  hard  of  faith  are  these. 

Cruel  are  they,  yet  Thy  children.    Foul  are  they, 

Yet  wert  Thou  born  to  save  them  utterly. 

Then  make  me  as  I  pray, 

87 


Pere     Lalemant 

Just  to  their  hates,  kind  to  their  sorrows,  wise 
After  their  speech,  and  strong  before  their  free 
Indomitable  eyes. 

Do  the  French  lilies  reign 

Over  Mont  Royal  and  Stadacona  still? 

Up  the  St.  Lawrence  comes  the  spring  again, 

Crowning  each  southward  hill 

And  blossoming  pool  with  beauty,  while  I  roam 

Far  from  the  perilous  folds  that  are  my  home. 

There  where  we  built  St.  Ignace  for  our  needs. 

Shaped  the  rough  roof  tree,  turned  the  first  sweet 

sod, 
St.  Ignace  and  St.  Louis,  little  beads 
On  the  rosary  of  God. 

Pines  shall  Thy  pillars  be, 
Fairer  than  those  Sidonian  cedars  brought 
By  Hiram  out  of  Tyre,  and  each  birch-tree 
Shines  like  a  holy  thought. 
But  come  no  worshippers;  shall  I  confess, 
St.  Francis-like,  the  birds  of  the  wilderness? 
O,  with  Thy  love  my  lonely  head  uphold. 
88 


Pere    Lalemant 

A  wandering  shepherd  I,  who  hath  no  sheep; 
A  wandering  soul,  who  hath  no  scrip,  nor  gold, 
Nor  anywhere  to  sleep. 

My  hour  of  rest  is  done; 

On  the  smooth  ripple  lifts  the  long  canoe; 

The  hemlocks  murmur  sadly  as  the  sun 

Slants  his  dim  arrows  through. 

Whither  I  go  I  know  not,  nor  the  way. 

Dark  with  strange  passions,  vexed  with  heathen 

charms. 
Holding  I  know  not  what  of  life  or  death; 
Only  be  Thou  beside  me  day  by  day, 
Thy  rod  my  guide  and  comfort,  underneath 
Thy  everlasting  arms. 


89 


Bega 

From  the  clouded  belfry  calling, 
Hear  my  soft  ascending  swells; 
Hear  my  notes  like  swallows  falling; 
I  am  Bega,  least  of  bells. 
When  great  Turkeful  rolls  and  rings 
All  the  storm-touched  turret  swings, 
Echoing  battle,  loud  and   long. 
When  great  Tatwin  wakening  roars 
To  the   far-off  shining  shores, 
All  the  seamen  know  his  song. 
I  am  Bega,  least  of  bells: 
In  my  throat  my  message  swells. 
I  with  all  the  winds  a-thrill, 
Murmuring  softly,  murmuring  still, 
"God  around  me,  God  above  me, 
God  to  guard  me,  God  to  love  me." 

I  am  Bega,  least  of  bells. 
Weaving  wonder,  wind-born  spells. 
90 


Bega 

High  above  the  morning  mist, 
Wreathed  in  rose  and  amethyst, 
Still  the  dreams  of  music  float 
Silver  from  my  silver  throat, 
Whispering  beauty,  whispering  peace. 
When  great  Tatwin's  golden  voice 
Bids  the  listening  land  rejoice, 
When  great  Turkeful  rings  and  rolls 
Thunder  down  to  trembling  souls, 
Then  my  notes  like  curlews  flying, 
Lifting,   falling,  sinking,  sighing, 
Softly  answer,  softly  cease. 
I  with  all  the  airs  at  play 
Murmuring  sweetly,  murmuring  say, 
"God  around  me,  God  above  me, 
God  to  guard  me,  God  to  love  me." 


91 


In  a  Monastery  Garden 

Over  the  long  salt  ridges 

And  the  gold  sea-poppies  between, 

They  builded  them  wild-briar  hedges, 

A  church  and  a  cloistered  green. 

And  when  they  were  done  with  their  praises, 

And  the  tides  on  the  Fore  beat  slow, 

Under  the  white  cliff-daisies 

They  laid  them  down  in  a  row. 

Porphyry,  Paul,  and  Peter, 
Jasper,  and  Joachim, — 
Was  the  psaltery  music  sweeter 
Than  the  throat  of  the  thrush  to  him? 
Tired  of  their  drones  and  their  dirges, 
Where  the  young  cliff-rabbits  play. 
Wet  with  the  salt  of  the  surges, 
They  laid  them  down  for  a  day. 
92 


In  a  Monastery  Garden 

One  may  not  call  to  the  other 
There  on  the  rim  of  the  deep, 
Only  the  youngest  brother 
Lies  and  smiles  in  his  sleep. 
When  the  wild  swan's  shadow  passes, 
When  the  ripe  fruit  falls  to  the  sod, 
When  the  faint  moth  flies  in  the  grasses 
He  dreams  in  the  hands  of  God. 

Here  for  his  hopes  there  follow 
The  violets  one  by  one. 
The  dove  is  here  and  the  swallow 
And  the  j'oung  leaf  seeking  the  sun. 
And  here  when  the  last  sail  darkens 
And  the  last  lone  path  is  trod. 
Under  the  rose  he  barkens 
And  smiles  in  the  eyes  of  God. 


93 


A  Child's  Song 

When  the  Child  played  in  Galilee, 
He  had  no  wine-clear  maple  leaves, 
No  west  winds  singing  of  the  sea 
Over  the  frosted  sheaves; 
But  with  pale  myrrh  His  head  was  bound 
And  crowned. 

When  the  Child  lived  in  Nazareth, 
He  watched  the  golden  anise  seed, 
With  daisies  white  in  the  wind's  breath. 
And  hyssop  flowering  for  His  need, 
While  the  late  crocus  from  the  sod 
Flamed  for  her  God. 

When  the  Child  dwelt  in  Palestine, 
Over  the  brooks  the  willow  grew, 
Olive  and  aspen,  oak  and  pine. 
Sweet  sycamore  and  yew. 
But  one  dark  Tree  of  all  the  seven 
Stood  high  as  heaven. 
94 


A  Child's  Song  of  Christmas 

My  counterpane  is  soft  as  silk, 
My  blankets  white  as  creamy  milk. 

The  hay  was  soft  to  Him,  I  know, 

Our  little  Lord  of  long  ago. 

Above  the  roofs  the  pigeons  fly 

In  silver  wheels  across  the  sky. 

The  stable-doves  they  cooed  to  them, 
Mary  and  Christ  in  Bethlehem. 

Bright  shines  the  sun  across  the  drifts, 
And  bright  upon  my  Christmas  gifts. 

They  brought  Him  incense,  myrrh,  and  gold, 
Our  little  Lord  who  lived  of  old. 

O,  soft  and  clear  our  mother  sings 
Of  Christmas  joys  and  Christmas  things. 
God's  holy  angels  sang  to  them, 
Mary  and  Christ  in  Bethlehem. 
95 


A  Child's  Song  of  Christmas 

Our  hearts  they  hold  all  Christmas  dear, 
And  earth  seems  sweet  and  heaven  seems  near, 
O,  heaven  was  in  His  sight,  I  knov^^, 
That  little  Child  of  long  ago. 


96 


Youth's  End 

I  HAVE  held  my  life  too  nigh, 

Spring  and  harvest,  love  and  laughter,  smile  and 

sigh. 
I  should  have  held  it  lightly,  like  a  young  leaf 

rent  in  haste 
From  the  w^illow  in  the  v^aste. 
A  moment  in  my  fingers;  then  it  fluttered,  then 

it  fled, 
A  little  flame  of  red, 
To  the  God-beholding  desert  where  the  soundless 

years  go  by, — 
I  have  held  my  life  too  high. 

I  have  held  my  death  too  dear, 

Shame  or  honour,  peace  or  peril,  pride  or  fear. 

I  should  have  held  it  softly,  as  the  little  cloud 

that  flies 
When  the  heron  takes  the  skies. 
97 


Youth's  End 

I  should  have  held  it  kindly  as  a  passing  whisper, 

—"Friend, 
Here's  the  end, 
Here  the  silver  cord  is  loosened  and  the  bowl  is 

broken  here," — 
But  I  held  my  death  too  dear. 


98 


Jasper's  Song 

Who  goes  down  through  the  slim  green  sallows, 
Soon,  so  soon  ? 

Dawn  is  hard  on  the  heels  of  the  moon, 
But  never  a  Ifly  the  day-star  knows 
Is  white,  so  white  as  the  one  who  goes 
Armed  and  shod,  when  the  hyacinths  darken. 
Then  hark,  O  harken ! 

And  rouse  the  moths  from  the  deep  rose-mallows, 
Call  the  wild  hares  down  from  the  fallows, 
Gather  the  silk  of  the  young  sea-poppies, 
The  bloom  of  the  thistle,  the  bells  of  the  foam; 
Bind  them  all  with  a  brown  owl's  feather. 
Snare  the  winds  in  a  golden  tether, 
Chase  the  clouds  from  the  gipsy's  weather,  and 
follow,  O  follow  the  white  spring  home. 

Who  goes  past  with  the  wind  that  chilled  us, 
Late,  so  late? 

Fortune  leans  on  the  farmer's  gate, 
99 


Jasper's  Song 

Watching  the  round  sun  low  in  the  south, 
With  a  plume  in  his  cap  and  a  rose  at  his  mouth. 
But  O,  for  the  folk  who  were  free  and  merry 
There's  never  so  much  as  a  red  rose-berry. 
But  old  earth's  warm  as  the  wine  that  filled  us, 
And  the  fox  and  the  little  grey  mouse  shall  build 

us 
Walls  of  the  sweet  green  gloom  of  the  cedar, 
A  roof  of  bracken,  a  curtain  of  whin; 
One  more  rouse  ere  the  bowl  reposes 
Low  in  the  dust  of  our  lost  red  roses, 
One  more  song  ere  the  cold  night  closes,  and 

welcome,  O  welcome  the  dark  death  in! 


100 


The  Hillman's  Lass 

Over  the  field  where  the  grass  is  cool, 

(Follow  the  road  who  must!) 

With  a  song  for  the  beech  and  the  brown  pool, 

And  the  noiseless  tread  in  the  dust. 

With  a  laugh  for  the  lazy  hours  that  go, 

And  the  folk  who  pass  us  by. 

(The  trees  they  grow  so  broad,  so  low, 

They  shut  me  from  the  sky.) 

Here  be  strawberries  wild  and  sweet, 

(Follow  the  road  who  may!) 

And  here's  a  rest  for  a  bairn's  feet 

And  a  kiss  at  the  close  o'  day. 

And  here's  a  cloud  from  the  shining  sea 

Like  a  white  moth  in  the  night. 

(On  the  edge  o'  the  barley  field,  may  be 

The  stars  would  show  more  bright.) 

Cut  me  a  flute  where  the  reeds  are  brown. 
(Follow  the  road  who  will !) 

lOI 


The  Hillman^s  Lass 

O,  I'll  dress  you  fair  in  a  green  gown 

And  a  cloak  that  is  finer  still. 

Your  sleeves  shall  be  o'  the  fairies'  lawn, 

Your  shoon  as  red  as  the  rose. 

(Do  you  think  that  the  wind  which  wakes  at 

dawn 
Will  bring  us  a  breath  o'  the  snows?) 

O,  the  world's  wide,  and  the  world  is  long. 

(Follow  the  road  who  may!) 

And  here's  a  lilt  of  the  wild  song 

The  Romany  pipers  play. 

And  "Mine,"  it  sings,  "is  the  moon's  shield, 

And  the  cloak  o'  the  cloud  is  mine." 

(Do  you  think  that  the  lowland  clover  field 

Is  sweet  as  the  upland  pine?) 


102 


The  Shepherd  Boy 

When  the  red  moon  hangs  over  the  fold, 
And  the  cypress  shadow  is  rimmed  with  gold, 

0  little  sheep,   I  have  laid  me  low. 
My  face  against  the  old  earth's  face, 
Where  one  by  one  the  white  moths  go, 
And  the  brown  bee  has  his  sleeping  place. 
And  then  I  have  whispered,  Mother,  hear, 
For  the  owls  are  awake  and  the  night  is  near. 
And  whether  I  lay  me  near  or  far 

No  lips  shall  kiss  me. 
No  eye  shall  miss  me. 
Saving  the  eje  of  a  cold  white  star. 

And  the  old  brown  woman  answers  mild, 
Rest  you  safe  on  my  heart,  O  child. 
Many  a  shepherd,  many  a  king, 

1  fold  them  safe  from  their  sorrowing. 
Gwenever's  heart  is  bound  with  dust, 

103 


The  Shepherd  Boy 

Tristram  dreams  of  the  dappled  doe, 

But  the  bugle  moulders,  the  blade  is  rust; 

Stilled  are  the  trumpets  of  Jericho, 

And  the  tired  men  sleep  by  the  walls  of  Troy. 

Little  and  lonely, 

Knowing  me  only, 

Shall  I  not  comfort  you,  shepherd-boy? 

When  the  wind  wakes  in  the  apple-tree. 

And  the  shy  hare  feeds  on  the  wild  fern  stem, 

I  say  my  prayers  to  the  Trinity, — 

The  prayers  that  are  three  and  the  charms  that 

are  seven 
To  the  angels  guarding  the  towers  of  heaven, — 
And  I  lay  my  head  on  her  raiment's  hem, 
Where  the  young  grass  darkens  the  strawberry 

star, 
Where  the  iris  buds  and  the  bellworts  are. 
All  night  I  hear  her  breath  go  by 
Under  the  arch  of  the  empty  sky. 
All  night  her  heart  beats  under  my  head, 
And  I  lie  as  still  as  the  ancient  dead, 
104 


The  Shepherd  Boy 

Warm  as  the  young  lambs  there  with  the  sheep. 

I  and  no  other, 

Close  to  my  Mother, 

Fold  my  hands  In  her  hands,  and  sleep. 


105 


Duna 

When  I  was  a  little  lad 

With  folly  on  my  lips, 

Fain  was  I  for  journeying 

All  the  seas  in  ships. 

But  now  across  the  southern  swell, 

Every  dawn  I  hear 

The  little  streams  of  Duna 

Running  clear. 

When  I  was  a  young  man, 
Before  my  beard  v/as  grey, 
All  to  ships  and  sailormen 
I  gave  my  heart  away. 
But  I'm  weary  of  the  sea-wind, 
I'm  weary  of  the  foam. 
And  the  little  stars  of  Duna 
Call  me  home. 


1 06 


My  Father  He  Was  a  Fisherman 

My  father  he  was  a  fisherman, 
That  wrought  at  the  break  o'  day, 
And  hither  and  thither  the  long  tides  ran 
r  the  long  blue  baj^ 

''The  tides  go  up  and  the  tides  go  down, 
But  what  do  you  know  of  the  sea?" 
Her  voice,  i'  the  long  grey  streets  o'  the  town, 
Is  singing  to  me. 

"What  do  you  know  of  the  sails  at  dawn, 
What  of  the  shell-white  foam?" 
Cheerly  and  sweet,  from  a  world  withdrawn, 
They  are  calling  me  home. 

"What  is  the  grief  you  fain  w^ould  tell 
When  30ur  eyes  are  turned  on  me?" 
O,  well  it  was  taught  and  I  learned  it  well,- 
The  grief  o'  the  sea. 

107 


My  Father  He  Was  a  Fisherman 

"Where  do  you  travel  and  where  do  you  sleep, 

Where  shall  you  take  your  rest?" 

At  the  inn  that  shelters  my  father,  deep 

r  the  seas  o'  the  west. 


io8 


Jennifer's  Lad 

Sweet  Jennifer  came  calling  me 

Along  the  shining  beach. 

"There's  green  upon  the  hawthorn  tree, 

There's  bloom  upon  the  peach. 

O,  April's  found  the  upland  larch, 

The  hazel  in  the  hollow," — 

But  louder  was  the  snare-drum  with  its  "March, 

march,  march!" 
And  clearer  called  the  bugle,  "Will  you  follow?" 

Young  Jennifer  came  seeking  me 

With  love  upon  her  lips. 

"O,  all  kind  angels  keep  the  sea 

And  fortune  guard  the  ships. 

The  Autumn  winds  have  rent  the  larch, 

The  south  has  won  the  swallow," — 

But  clearer  beat  the  snare-drum  with  Its  "March, 

march,  march!'* 
And  sweeter  sang  the  bugle,  "Will  you  follow?" 
109 


Three  Island  Songs 

After  the  wind  in  the  wood, 

Peace,  and  the  night. 

After  the  bond  and  the  brood, 

Flight. 

After  the  height  and  the  hush 

Where  the  wild  hawk  swings, 

Heart  of  the  earth-loving  thrush 

Shaken  with  wings. 

After  the  bloom  and  the  leaf 

Rain  on  the  nest. 

After  the  splendour  and  grief. 

Rest. 

After  the  hills  and  the  far 

Glories  and  gleams, 

Cloud,  and  the  dawn  of  a  star, 

And  dreams. 


O  THE  grey  rocks  of  the  islands  and  the  hemlock 
green  above  them, 

no 


Three  Island  Songs 

The  foam  beneath  the  wild  rose  bloom,  the  star 

above  the  shoal. 
When  I  am  old  and  weary  I'll  wake  my  heart 

to  love  them, 
For  the  blue  ways  of  the  islands  are  wound  about 

my  soul. 

Here  in  the  early  even  when  the  young  grey  dew 
is  falling, 

And  the  king-heron  seeks  his  mate  beyond  the 
loneliest  wild. 

Still  your  heart  in  the  twilight,  and  you'll  hear 
the  river  calling 

Through  all  her  outmost  islands  to  seek  her  last- 
born  child. 


I  SAT  among  the  green  leaves,  and  heard  the  nuts 

falling, 
The  broad  red  butterflies  were  gold  against  the 

sun, 
But  in  between  the  silence  and  the  sweet  birds 

calling 
The  nuts  fell  one  by  one. 
I II 


Three  Island  Songs 

Why  should  they  fall  and  the  year  but  half  over? 
Why  should  sorrow  seek  me  and  I  so  young  and 

kind? 
The  leaf  is  on  the  bough  and  the  dew  is  on  the 

clover, 
But  the  green  nuts  are  falling  in  the  wind. 

O,  I  gave  my  lips  away  and  all  my  soul  behind 

them. 
Why  should  trouble  follow  and  the  quick  tears 

start? 
The  little  birds  may  love  and  fly  with  only  God 

to  mind  them, 
But  the  green  nuts  are  falling  on  my  heart. 


112 


Serenade 

Dark  is  the  Iris  meadow, 

Dark  is  the  ivory  tower, 

And  h'ghtly  the  young  moth's  shadow 

Sleeps  on  the  passion-flower. 

Gone  are  our  day's  red  roses. 
So  lovely  and  lost  and  few, 
But  the  first  star  uncloses 
A  silver  bud  in  the  blue. 

Night,  and  a  flame  in  the  embers 
Where  the  seal  of  the  years  was  set,- 
When  the  almond-bough  remembers 
How  shall  my  heart  forget? 


113 


The  Lovers  of  Marchaid 

Dominic  came  riding  down,  sworded,  straight 

and  splendid, 
Drave  his  hilt  against  her  door,  flung  a  golden 

chain. 
Said:  "I'll  teach  your  lips  a  song  sweet  as  his 

that's  ended, 
Ere  the  white  rose  call  the  bee,  the  almond  flower 

again." 

But  he  only  saw  her  head  bent  within  the  gloom 
Over  heaps  of  bridal  thread  bright  as  apple-bloom, 
Silver  silk  like  rain  that  spread  across  the  driving 
loom. 

Dreaming  Fanch,  the  cobbler's  son,  took  his  tools 

and  laces. 
Wrought  her  shoes  of  scarlet  dye,  shoes  as  pale 

as  snow; 

114 


The  Lovers  of  Marchaid 

"They  shall  lead  her  wildrose  feet  all  the  fairy 

paces 
Danced  along  the  road  of  love,  the  road  such  feet 

should  go" — 


But  he  only  saw  her  eyes  turning  from  his  gift 
Out  towards   the  silver  skies  where  the  white 

clouds  drift, 
Where  the  wild  gerfalcon  flies,  where  the  last 

sails  lift. 


Bran  has  built  his  homestead  high  where  the  hills 

may  shield  her, 
Where  the  young  bird  waits  the  spring,  where  the 

dawns  are  fair, 
Said:  "I'll  name  my  trees  for  her,  since  I  may  not 

yield  her 
Stars  of  morning  for  her  feet,  of  evening  for  her 

hair." 

115 


The  Lovers  of  Marchaid 

But  he  did  not  see  them  ride,  seven  dim  sail  and 

more, 
All  along  the  harbour-side,  white  from  shore  to 

shore. 
Nor  heard  the  voices  of  the  tide  crying  at  her 

door. 

Jean-Marie  has  touched  his  pipe  down  beside  the 

river 
When  the  young  fox  bends  the  fern,  when  the 

folds  are  still, 
Said:  "I  send  her  all  the  gifts  that  my  love  may 

give  her, — 
Golden  notes  like  golden  birds  to  seek  her  at  my 

will" 

But  he  only  found  the  waves,  heard  the  sea-gull's 

cry, 
In  and  out  the  ocean  caves,  underneath  the  sky. 
All  above  the  wind-washed  graves  where  dead  sea- 
men lie. 


Ii6 


The  House's  Setting 

Here  is  no  hedge  of  yewe  to  hold  in  griefe, 
No  cypresse  nor  long  willow  for  despaire. 
But  the  young  birch  displayes  his  cheerfulle  leaf 
In  tracerie  most  faire. 

Where  the  sunne  falls  at  morn  stand  poplars 

seven 
Where  freely  I  of  all  sweete  joyes  may  borrowe, 
An  elm  that  lifts  his  prayerfulle  arms  to  Heaven, 
And  three  tall  pines  for  sorrowe. 


117 


Deus  Misereatur 

Pleasant  the  ways  whereon  our  feet  were  led, 
Sweet  the  young  hills,  the  valleys  of  content, 
But  now  the  hours  of  dew  and  dream  have  fled. 
Lord,  we  are  spent. 

We  did  not  heed  Thy  warning  in  the  skies, 

We  have  not  heard  Thy  voice  nor  known  Thy 

fold; 
But  now  the  world  is  darkening  to  our  eyes. 
Lord,  we  grow  old. 

Now  the  sweet  stream  turns  bitter  with  our  tears, 
Now  dies  the  star  we  followed  in  the  west, 
Now  are  we  sad  and  ill  at  ease  with  years. 
Lord,  we  would  rest. 

Lo,  our  proud  lamps  are  emptied  of  their  light, 
Weary  our  hands  to  toil,  our  feet  to  roam ; 
Our  day  is  past  and  swiftly  falls  Thy  night. 
Lord,  lead  us  home. 


Fame 

Have  I  played  fellowship  with  night,  to  see 

The  allied  armies  break  our  gates  at  dawn 

And  let  our  general  in?    By  Bacchus,  no! 

I  have  not  left  my  stall,  sir,  I'm  too  poor 

For  lazy  prentices  to  hand  my  wares, — 

Such  delicate  chains,  like  amber  linked  with  love ! 

Such  silvered  pins,  like  hate  to  let  love  out! — 

What  know  I?    But  my  Guidarello  went 

To  the  fountain  of  the  coppersmiths,  when  first 

The  double  cypress  showed  upon  the  east. 

He's  home,  poor  fool,  hoarse  as  a  moulting  bird 

From  loud  throat-loyalty. 

"The  banners  burn 
Still  in  my  soul,"  he  cries,  "as  then  in  air. 
The  grey  air,  the  grey  houses,  and  the  flowers, 
The  flowers,   my  father!     Thyme  and   twisted 

sweets 
From  the  blue  hills  I  dream  of,  and  thin  bells 
Of  faer>'  folds;  pomegranates  spun  in  flame, 
119 


Fame 

Flame  of  red  rose  and  golden,  flame  of  sound 
Blown  from  hot-throated  trumpets,  and  the  flame 
Of  her  proud  eyes ! — 

She  rode  beside  the  duke 
In  velvet  coloured  as  a  pansy  is 
And   threaded   round  with   gold.      Her   mantle 

strained 
On  the  warm  wind  behind  her,  golden  too, 
Gold  as  the  spires  of  lilies,  and  her  hair 
And    her    dark    eyes   were  danced  across   with 

gold." 

Gold,  gold,  poor  fool,  and  she  was  bought 
for  gold, 
A  golden  grief  to  ride  at  a  duke's  rein. 
Eh  well!    The  great  grow  love-in-idleness 
About  their  courts.     Did  Guidarello  see 
Our  general  too?     "A  little,  tired  old  man. 
Clad  in  worn  sables  with  a  silver  star," 
He  told  me,  "fain  to  find  his  house  and  sleep." 


120 


Kwannon 

Kiuannon,  the  Japanese  goddess  of  mercy,  is 
represented  ivith  many  hands,  typifying  generosity 
and  kindness.  In  one  of  these  hands  she  is  supposed 
to  hold  an  axe,  ijjhereivith  she  severs  the  threads  of 
human  lives. 

I  AM  tlie  ancient  one,  the  many-handed, 

The  merciful  am  I. 

Here  where  the  black  pine  bends  above  the  sea 

They  bring  their  gifts  to  me — 

Spoil  of  the  foreshore  where  the  corals  lie, 

Fishes  of  ivory,  and  amber  stranded. 

And  carven  beads 

Green  as  the  fretted  fringes  of  the  weeds. 

Age  after  age,  I  watch  the  long  sails  pass. 
Age  after  age,  I  see  them  come  once  more 
Home,  as  the  grey-winged  pigeon  to  the  grass, 
The  white  crane  to  the  shore. 
Goddess  am  I  of  heaven  and  this  small  town 

121 


Kwannon 

Above  the  beaches  brown. 

And    here    the   children    bring   me   cakes,    and 

flowers, 
And  all  the  strange  sea-treasures  that  they  find, 
For  "She,"  they  say,  *'the  Merciful,  is  ours, 
And  she,"  they  say,  "is  kind." 

Camphor  and  wave-worn  sandalwood  for  burn- 
ing 
They  bring  to  me  alone, 
Shells  that  are  veined  like  irises,  and  those 
Curved  like  the  clear  bright  petals  of  a  rose. 
Wherefore   an  hundredfold  again  returning 
I  render  them  their  own — 

Full-freighted  nets  that  flash  among  the  foam, 
Laughter  and  love,  and  gentle  eyes  at  home, 
Cool  of  the  night,  and  the  soft  air  that  swells 
My  silver  temple  bells. 

Winds  of  the  spring,  the  little  flowers  that  shine 
Where  the  young  barley  slopes  to  meet  the  pine, 
Gold  of  the  charlock,  guerdon  of  the  rain, 
I  give  to  them  again. 

122 


Kwannon 

Yet  though  the  fishing  boats  return  full-laden 
Out  of  the  broad  blue  east, 
Under    the    brown    roofs    pain    is    their    hand- 
maiden, 
And  mourning  is  their  feast. 
Yea,  though  my  many  hands  are  raised  to  bless, 
I  am  not  strong  to  give  them  happiness. 

Sorrow  comes  swiftly  as  the  swallow  flying, 
O,  little  lives,  that  are  so  quickly  done! 
Peace  is  my  raiment,  mercy  is  my  breath, 
I  am  the  gentle  one. 

When  they  are  tired  of  sorrow  and  of  sighing 
I  give  them  death. 


123 


Mons  Angelorum 

Moses,  Joshua,  the  Three  Angels  of  the  Uni- 
verse 

Evening:  a  slope  of  Pisgah 

Moses — Our  span  of  life  is  lessening  with  the 

years, 
Our  little  sun  rolls  swiftlier  to  its  end 
Among  the  eternal  stars.    It  is  a  feather 
Blown  from  a  careless  lip  into  the  dark, 
A  fallen  feather,  the  lily  of  a  day. 
Brimming  with  blood  and  tears  instead  of 

dew. 
And  dying  with  its  sleep.     Having  known 

life, 
Having  known  day,  I  pass  into  the  night; 
Having  long  spoken  with  God,  I  hold  my 

peace ; 
Having  long  held  the  sword,  I  lay  it  down, 
124 


Mons  Angelorum 

And   the  new  watch   relieves  me.     Is  all 

well? 
Joshua — O  father  of  my  soul,  I  cannot  tell. 
The  burden  of  the  Lord  is  heavy  on  me, 
And  I  am  broken  beneath  it. 
Moses —  Since  I  knew, 

All  my  desires  and  cares  have  gone  from  me. 
Rather  I  think  on  old  forgotten  things — 
A  song  within  the  temple-court,  to  her, 
Isis,  the  Lady  of  Love.    How  white  she  sat 
Above  the  crowded  gate!     I  was  a  boy: 
I  ran  and  laid  a  lotus  on  her  knees. 
Dreaming  she  smiled  in  answer.    Ah,  those 

dreams 
Far  on  the  shining  level  of  the  sands, — 
Thebes  and  old  Tanis  builded  of  a  cloud ! 
The  reeds  beside  the  river,  those  sweet  trees 
Full  of  warm  buds  that  ripen  and  unclose 
At  eve;  the  barges  passing  on  the  Nile 
Like  golden  water-fowl  with  ivory  wings; 
The    gardens   and    the    great    pomegranate 

flowers, 

125 


Mons  Angelorum 

And  she,   my   gentle   mother   in   Mizralm, 
Calling  me,  "Mesu,   Mesu." 
Joshua —  *I  cannot  think. 

My  sorrow  stays  me  and  my  grief  prevents. 
Yet  there  are  heathen  foes  and  wars  to  come. 
I  take  thy  sword.     I  cannot  take  thy  soul. 
Master  of  Law,  unshaken  friend  of  God, 
But  I  can  fight  for  Israel. 
Moses —  Fight,  and  stand 

Firmly  for  God.    Jehovah  is  salvation. 
And  now,  beloved  son  in  all  but  blood. 
Go,  get  you  down  again. 
Joshua —  A  little  longer, 

Leave  me  a  little  longer  with  you,  lord! 
Moses — No  longer,    for   the  gates   of  life   are 
lonely, 
Out  of  the  dark  man  cometh  to  his  life, 
Into  the  dark  he  goeth. 

Down,   look   down, 
Down  to  the  clustered  tents,  each  with  its 

lives 
Of  foolish  children,  vexed  with  many  fears. 
Agonies,  hopes,  beliefs  inherited, 
126 


Mons  Angelorum 

Dark  hates,  fond  dreams,  divine  humilities. 
Shall    they    go    leaderless    from    stream    to 

stream, 
Following  the  far-flung  visions  of  despair, 
These  that  have  been  my  sheep? 
Joshua —  I  cannot,  father. 

I  am  a  man  of  war  and  not  of  wisdom. 
They  w^ill  not  know  my  voice  nor  follow 
me. 
Moses — Man,  is  it  thy  faint  voice  shall  be  up- 
lifted. 
To  soothe  the  fearful  and  uphold  the  strong. 
To  lead  the  unshaken  tribes  to  victory 
Against  the  men  of  Amalek  and  Ai, 
Lords  of  the  plain  and  coast?     Is  it  thy 

strength  ? 
Nay,  but  Jehovah's  in  thee.    As  the  cloud 
Filling  the  empty  valley  of  the  hills, 
As  the  white  flood  along  the  water-courses 
That  once  were  barren,  so  His  strength  will 

pass 
Into  the  pits  and  runnels  of  thy  soul. 
127 


Mons  Angelorum 

Fight,  for  the  Lord  is  with  thee.     Stand 
thou  firm. 
Joshua — Lo,  I  would  rather  stay  and  die  with 
thee 

Than  pass  with  shining  banners  and  with 
song 

Of  silver  shawms  and  trumpets,  in  thy  place 

Over  the  river  Jordan. 
Moses —  Nay,  I  pass 

Over  a  deeper  river,  with  no  songs, 

No  mighty  trumpetings,  no  pride  of  ban- 
ners. 

Toil  have  I  borne  but  triumph  is  not  mine. 

Once,  once  mine  eyes  shall  see  the  Promised 
Land, 

Her  forts  and   towers,   cities   and  pleasant 
fields, 

Her  palms  and  cedars,  vines  and  olive  trees, 

And  then  be  darkened.    Here's  my  heritage, 

Here  by  these  mighty  chasms,  these  God- 
ward  peaks. 

My  last  resort,  my  lone  abiding  place. 
128 


Mons  Angelorum 

See,  the  night  comes.     How  is  it  with  thee, 

son? 
Joshua — A  cloud  has  drawn  between  us  and  the 

plain, 
A  darkness  moves  between  us  and  the  sky, 
Full  of  vague  voices,  mighty  whisperings, 
Wings,  and  the  sound  of  them. 

O,  never  man 
Has  breathed  such  chilling  air  as  this  which 

blows 
Out  of  the  dark.     O,  never  man  has  heard 
Such  sounds  as  these  which  beat  upon  my 

soul, 
Known,   yet  unknown;   familiar,   yet  most 

dread ! 
Lord,  must  I  go? 
Moses —  This  is  the  wind  of  death, 

And    this    the   cold    that    lies   w^ithout   the 

world, 
And   these   the  sounds  that  thrill   the  un- 
trodden void 
Beyond   the  lonelier  stars.     Go   down,   go 

down 

129 


Mons  Angelorum 

To  darkened  Israel  mourning  in  his  tents. 
I  can  no  longer  see  thee.     Stand  thou  firm. 
{Joshua  goes;  the  cloud  surrounds  Moses.) 
O  ye  celestial  presences,  great  shapes 
With  terrible  fair  faces,  towering  wings, — 
Wings  with  the  wine-deep  glow  of  amethyst, 
Sheath  over  sheath  like  folded  water-buds 
Lit  with  an  inward  flame;  wings  pale  as 

foam, 
Faint  plumes  showered  with  silver;  wings 

serene 
Uplifted  in  a  radiant  arc  of  dawn, — 
Unchain  the  prisoned  pinions  of  this  soul, 
Say  to  the  blind  bird,  Fly.     Bid  life  recede, 
A    bubble    before  the    advancing    wave   of 

death. 
From  my  youth  upward  I  have  spoken  of 

death, 
Nor  knew  the  word  so  sweet.  There's  music 

in  It, 
Music   to   break   the   heart.      O,    heavenly 

guards, 
Looking  so  long  In  your  Immortal  eyes 
130 


Mons  Angelorum 

I  am  grown  old.    Death  calls  me  as  a  sleep, 

A  rest  desired,  a  rich  forgetfulness, 

After  too  much  of  life. 
Angel  of  Darkness —  Life  is  no  more. 

A  little  flame  soon  swallowed  in  the  night, 

A  harp  that  hath  no  voice,  a  bow  unstrung. 

Pride  of  the  grass  and  power  of  the  reed, 

Life  is  as  swift  in  breaking.     Peace  be  on 
thee  ; 

Mine  are  the  wings  of  peace.    Men  call  me 
death, 

But  so  God  hath  not  named  me. 
Angel  of  Light —  Life  is  past, 

Thy  ground  is  taken,  thy  tent  is  pitched  for- 
ever. 

Drink  of   these  wells  and  be  forsworn  of 
sorrow, 

Forsaken  of  weeping.     Men  have  called  me 
death. 

Yet  am  I  less  and  greater. 
Angel  of  Dreams —  Peace  be  on  thee. 

Peace  and  good  rest.     Mine  are  the  wings 
of  silence 

131 


Mons  Angelorum 

Folded  In  silver  sleep  before  my  face; 

This  in  my  hand  is  golden  fruit  of  Eden, 

Whose  scent  is  sleep;  its  flame-white  flower 
grew 

Along  the  glades  where  Adam  walked  with 
God, 

Death  have  men  called  me,  yet  I  am  not 
death. 

Take  thy  last  look  on  life. 
Moses —  O,  Land  of  Promise, 

From  the  great  plains  of  Moab  to  the  sea, — 

Thy  blossoming  orchards,  streams,  and  pal- 
aces 

Like  golden  beads  threaded  on  silver  strings. 

Thy     towering    walls     and     pinnacles     of 
pride, — 

A  fruitful  field  it  is,  ripe  for  the  harvest, 

The  harvest  of  the  sword. 

I  shall  not  reap  it, 

The  winepress  of   His  wrath   I   shall   not 
tread. 

Plighted  am  I  to  silence;  I  go  down, 
132 


Mons  Angelorum 

Dead,   to   the  dead,   and   am  no  more  re- 
membered 
Upon  the  lips  of  men. 

Those  sceptred  kings, 
The  solemn  dead  of  old  Mizraim,  who  sit 
Forever  in  the  sun  beside  their  tombs, 
With  blank  eyes  smiling  on  eternity, 
Crowned  with  the  reed  and  lotus,  do  they 

live 
More  than  their  grass  and  lilies?     Those  I 

knew, 
Princes    and    scribes,    lords   of    the    desert, 

priests 
Learned  above  the  wit  of  common  minds. 
Captains  and  merchants,  rulers  over  gold, 
Feathers  and  spices,  emeralds,  ivories. 
Brought  to  the  feet  of  Pharaoh:  what  of 

them? 
What  of  the  King,  Lord  of  the  North  and 

South, 
Son  of  the  Sun,  like  to  the  Sun  forever? 
A   sun?     A   darkened    light,    a   star  o'er- 

whelmed, 

133 


Mons  Angelorum 

When  his  fierce  horsemen  sank  beneath  that 

surge 
Whose  crest  was  blood  and  terror, — when 

there  died 
On  one  hushed   night,   all  the  firstborn  of 

Egypt. 

O  night  divine,  I  set  thine  excellence 
Above  the  twice-crowned  noon.     Here  Is  no 

star, 
No    slenderest    crescent    poised    above    the 

world. 
No   lingering   love  of  day.     But   the   soft 

dark 
Folds  Inward  as  a  flower,  enfolding  me. 
My  length  of  little  days,  wisdom  and  grief. 
Light  as  a  drop  of  rain. 
Angel  of  Dreams —  Tender  is  night, 

But  tenderer  far  the  limits  of  this  death, 
This    dream-encompassed    city.      Here    no 

sound 
Shall  wake  thee,  from  thy  sleep  no  storm 

disturb, 

X34 


Mons  Angelorum 

Though  here  all  storms  are  born.    Tempest 

and  cloud, 
Thunder  and  hail,  the  mightiest  airs  of  God, 
The    hosts  of    night,    the    hot    triumphant 

dawn. 
Seasons,  and  times,  and  days,  unknown  shall 

march 
O'er  thy  surrendered  head. 
Moses —  O  loneliest  rest! 

On    my    lost    grave    only    the    winds   shall 

mourn. 
The  white  rain  do  me  service,  the  sad  stars 
Age  after  age  with  endless  circling  eyes 
View  this  last  desolation.     In  thy  hands. 
Into  thy  hands,  O  death.     Break  the  worn 

thread 
That  binds  the  rifted  pattern  of  the  loom. 
O    King   of   kings,    forsake   not   now   Thy 

servant. 
Angel  of  Darkness — Lo,  the  black  crags  leap  to 

the  vaulted  cloud, 
Towering  without  a  sound.    The  dark  takes 

substance 

135 


Mons  Angelorum 

In  domes  and  depths  of  mightiest  design 
And   seals  him  from  the  world.     Pillared 

like  Thebes, 
Straight   as  the  tall  palm-orchard  lift  the 

walls 
Of  this  vast  grave.     Life  has  no  meaning 

here, 
Light  has  no  name  nor  place.     O  human 

heart. 
Fain  for  the  little  shows  of  grief,  for  tears 
And  kindlier  sepulchre,  no  king  shall  sleep 
So  royally  housed  as  thou. 
Moses —  Draw  near,  draw  near. 

The  string   is   all   but   parted.    Shape  thy 

wings 
Into  a  roof  of  silver  silences, 
A   dome   of    deep    repose.      O   murmuring 

flood, 
O  tide  of  death  lifting  the  weed  of  life, 
O  passive  arbiter,  indifferent  power 
In  whose  still  hand   the  kingdoms  of  the 

world 
Lie  like  a  beggar's  coin,  beneath  whose  heel 

136 


Mons  Angelorum 

Nations  are  drifted  dust,  accept  thou  me. 
The  bubble  of  life  is  broken. 
Angel  of  Light —  Life  begins. 

Cover  his   face,   kind   Darkness,   with   thy 

wings 
Smooth  as  the  wild  swan's  breast.     Let  no 

wind  wake 
An  echo  in  this  holy  solitude. 
Let  the  enduring  seasons  with  soft  tread 
Circle  these  sacred  hills;  no  falling  star 
Shiver  the  fine  perfection  of  repose. 
God  hath  his  life.     Guard  Thou  his  mighty 

dust. 
Angel  of  Darkness — I   am  the  firstborn  angel. 

Ere  this  world 
Was  shapen,  I  endured  within  the  void 
Waiting   the  word   of  God.      Beyond   this 

world 
I  shall  endure,  when  the  young  stars  are 

driven 
Outworn  in  dust  along  the  roads  of  space. 
Blown  by  the  breath  of  chaos.     When  this 

plan, 

137 


Mons  Angelorum 

This  present  firmament,  vision  and  light, 
Princes  of  heaven,  dominions,  powers,  are 

past, 
I  shall  remain  about  the  eternal  throne 
Veiling  the  thoughts  of  God.      Leave  him 

with  me, 
Ye  younger  spirits;  such  silence  is  too  old 
For  your  bright  souls  to  bear.     Leave  me 

my  dead. 

{The  angels  of  Light  and  Dreams  take  flight. 
The  angel  of  Darkness  covers  Moses  with 

his   wings.) 
.  The  dead  are  mine.     Swift  they  come  down 
to  me. 
The  little  life  they  suffer,  their  frail  dream 
Is  past.     Here  is  no  memory,  here  no  hope, 
No  reason,  no  despair  nor  happiness. 
Only  the  dust  and  L     It  is  His  will. 
Voices  of  Israel — Who  now  shall  stand  between 
us  and  our  God? 


138 


A  Saxon  Epitaph 

The  earth  builds  on  the  earth 
Castles  and  towers; 
The  earth  saith  of  the  earth: 
All  shall  be  ours. 

Yea,  though  they  plant  and  reap 
The  rye  and  the  corn, 
Lo,  they  were  bond  to  Sleep 
Ere  they  were  born. 

Yea,  though  the  blind  earth  sows 
For  the  fruit  and  the  sheaf. 
They  shall  harvest  the  leaf  of  the  rose 
And  the  dust  of  the  leaf. 

Pride  of  the  sword  and  power 

Are  theirs  at  their  need 

Who   shall   rule  but   the   root  of   the 

flower 
The  fall  of  the  seed. 
139 


A  Saxon  Epitaph 

They  who  follow  the  flesh 

In  splendour  and  tears, 

They  shall  rest  and  clothe  them  afresh 

In  the  fulness  of  years. 

From  the  dream  of  the  dust  they  came 

As  the  dawn  set  free. 

They  shall  pass  as  the  flower  of  the 

flame 
Or  the  foam  of  the  sea. 

The  earth  builds  on  the  earth 
Cities  and  towers. 
The  earth  saith  of  the  earth: 
All  shall  be  ottrs» 


140 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL   BE  ASSESSED    FOR    FAILURE  TO    RETURN 
THIS    BOOK   ON    THE   DATE   DUE.    THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY     AND     TO     $1.00     ON     THE     SEVENTH     DAY 
OVERDUE. 

"^  ^?  im 

*t»^*   *tilMOftBl 

/^J  -^u'  4yn  V 

LD  21-20m-5,'39  (9269s) 

356979 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


;^^ 


:^■^;^^ 


/■J?dfe?l 


.^f>-J^>v^/ 


iliiiM 


